


Throat of the World

by Tippetarius



Series: Kyne's Gift [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Banter, Betaed, Deviates From Canon, Friendship, Interesting NPCs Mod, POV Multiple, Universe Alteration, tags may be added or changed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 04:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15900729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tippetarius/pseuds/Tippetarius
Summary: Three companions traveled to Winterhold for reasons of their own: J'zargo to become a great mage, Rumarin to sell a unique artifact and pay off his debt, and Mehra to restore the magic she lost to disease. Nothing went according to plan. Now they must pick up the pieces of their shattered hopes, and Mehra begins to confront her destiny as the Dragonborn.





	1. The Snow Cave

Rumarin had followed Mehra halfway up the steep and narrow path into the mountains when he stopped and looked back. The town of Winterhold lay below, a collection of sad little buildings huddled in the shadow of the dark and imposing College. Rumarin's eyes lingered on the main road out of Winterhold. Unlike the treacherous route they were about to take, the highway was wide, safe, and inviting.

"Tell me again why straying off the main road is a good idea?" asked Rumarin.

Mehra paused and turned to face him. "Because this is the way J'zargo went."

"But there's nothing that way, not for miles. No towns, not even an inn. Are you sure J'zargo chose this route in preference to a nice safe highway out of Winterhold?"

"Yes. The innkeeper said the mountain route is the fastest way to Dawnstar."

"Falling off the cliff is the fastest way to the beach, but that doesn't make it my first choice."

Mehra pulled her fur cloak against the chill wind and spoke haltingly. "I don't think J'zargo would see it like that. He always likes to know the fastest routes, and he might not even care about the dangers now."

"And there will be plenty of dangers. Ice wraiths and frost trolls and bears. Maybe even bandits and ill-tempered mountain goats." Rumarin paused, trying to think of other perils that might encourage Mehra to choose the safer route.

Mehra set her jaw. "I mean to follow J'zargo. Especially if he could be in danger."

Inwardly Rumarin cursed. He should have known harping on the dangers wouldn't work. That approach hadn't discouraged Mehra in the crypt either. "Well, perhaps I'm exaggerating slightly," he said, trying a different tack. "And J'zargo is good with fireballs. Ice wraiths and their ilk want nothing to do with fire, so I should say he's better equipped for the journey than we are.

"Besides," Rumarin added, "whichever route we choose, we'll all end up in the same place."

"That's only if nothing goes wrong. Suppose J'zargo gets badly hurt and no one is there to help him?"

Rumarin didn't answer at once and again turned his eyes longingly to the main road. The highway would take them past Fort Kastav. He needed to get back to the fort and report to the Stormcloak officer who had coerced him into spying on the College's resident Thalmor Justiciar. There was only so much Rumarin could risk telling the man, but he meant to drop a hint or two, just enough to prove he had done his sleuthing. Rumarin doubted he would get more septims for his trouble, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about the adjutant making good on his threat to flood the Stormcloak territories with wanted posters about Rumarin.

I could just tell her I need to get to the fort, thought Rumarin. But that would mean explaining why it was important. Why he had been pressured into spying on a Thalmor. Why he was afraid of printed notices leaving clues about his whereabouts. Why he was fleeing from bounty hunters. Why he owed a debt to one of Riften's most notorious crime lords. He didn't want to tell Mehra these things, partly because he was loathe to confront her about the unwitting role she had played in throwing him into the Stormcloak officer's power. But mostly because the details were all rather shameful and embarrassing.

"I'm going after J'zargo," said Mehra quietly. "You can still change your mind."

Rumarin hesitated. He had told Mehra he would go with her, yes, but that was when he thought they would be following the highway like any sensible person would. He was tempted to go his own way-- it wouldn't be the first time he had backed out of an agreement. But Mehra watched him with a look of sad resignation, as if she expected him to do exactly that, and Rumarin felt himself trapped. There was no getting out of this one.

"All right, let's go," said Rumarin, heaving a sigh.

Mehra looked relieved. She started to reply, then seemed to think better of it and resumed the steep climb up the path. Rumarin followed her and dimly hoped J'zargo hadn't gone far. Perhaps they could overtake J'zargo and drag him back to the highway. Rumarin was of a mind to throttle the Khajiit when they found him. J'zargo had cost him much; first the Khajiit stupidly gave away the White Phial, now he was leading them on a chase through a dangerous mountain pass.

Rumarin paused once more to gaze at the College, a grim black shape against a gray sky. He wasn't sorry to leave behind the hateful place that had stolen the White Phial from him, and with it his hopes of paying his debt.

"Farewell, O malodorous College of Winterhold," said Rumarin. "Don't let the vampire rats bite."

The path they followed through rocks and towering pines grew steeper and rougher, and Mehra slipped at least once. At last the trail leveled out and began leading them downhill through the foothills.

"There's Azura," said Mehra, pointing. From one of the southern peaks rose a towering statue of a graceful woman, a moon and star in her upraised hands.

"Yes, thank you for pointing her out, it's surprisingly easy to overlook the Queen of Dawn and Dusk looming larger than life on a mountain," said Rumarin, in no mood to admire statues when his ears already ached from the wind and the holes in his boots were letting in snow. Mehra turned her face away and said nothing more.

The way was rough, and Rumarin's meager robes and shabby cloak were poor protection against the cold wind blowing from the Sea of Ghosts. Still he walked fast through the rocks and snow in hopes of catching up with J'zargo, but Mehra couldn't match his long stride and kept stumbling and falling behind. He soon gave up and let Mehra set the pace.

Rumarin supposed he should count himself lucky that he was still alive to experience the discomforts of hard travel, considering that his life could have been brutally cut short in the Thalmor's room last night. Rumarin was sure he would be a corpse by now if the Thalmor Justiciar had walked in on him.

Rumarin still didn't understand how he got out of the room alive. Only a moment after he had picked open the armoire and discovered the astonishing machine hidden inside, someone unlocked the door. Rumarin resigned himself to being dead within seconds. But it was not the Thalmor Justiciar. It was a striking Altmer woman in a flowing gown. 

"Close that cabinet at once, you fool," said the woman.

Rumarin struggled to find his voice. "Er..."

She motioned at the open armoire, the machinery inside glinting in the moonlight. When Rumarin had closed it she said, "Tell me who you are why you're here."

"My name is Rumarin, and I'm..." Rumarin tried to make his mind work. He couldn't decide whether it was wiser to tell the truth or to lie and cover up his true reasons for breaking into the Thalmor's room.

The woman's eyes bore into his. "Don't waste my time if you want to live."

Rumarin didn't know if the woman meant she would kill him herself or let Ancano do the honors, but either way he didn't want to find out. For a moment he considered saying he had come to steal valuables, anything to avoid admitting he had come as a spy, but the look in her eyes chilled him. His instincts told him he would not survive the night if she saw through the lie. So he began telling her everything of consequence-- about his dire financial situation, and about the man in Fort Kastav who sent him to spy on the Thalmor.

She stared at him, incredulous. "A Stormcloak hired _you_ as a spy?"

"Well, 'hire' isn't quite accurate. 'Extortion' was more like it."

"So he blackmailed you."

"Something of that nature. He threatened to have notices about me distributed through the Stormcloak holds. Paint me as some sort of Thalmor spy wanted for questioning."

The woman shook her head in disgust, then summoned a tiny flame to light the candle on the desk. She moved with poise and grace, but Rumarin found it hard to appreciate these qualities when she was presently in command of his fate. He began to wonder who she was, what her relationship was to Ancano. His lover? It would explain why she had a key to the room. Rumarin remembered seeing her deep in conversation with Ancano at the party, and he had supposed her to be one of the guests from the Thalmor Embassy, or perhaps an old acquaintance from the Summerset Isles.

Rumarin decided to risk asking questions of his own. "So that big metal thing in the armoire. I have no idea what it is, do you? I suppose it could be a fancy Dwemer duck press, or maybe a--"

"I told you not to waste my time." There was a dangerous edge in her voice.

"Can I at least ask your name? I gave you mine."

"Call me Ivy," she said. Rumarin doubted Ivy was her real name. She spoke with a well-bred Alinor accent, and most people from the Summerset Isles gave their children equally well-bred Aldmeri names-- not names taken from common plants.

"Tell me everything you did," said Ivy. "Everything you opened or touched."

Rumarin thought for a moment, retracing his steps in his mind. He told Ivy about opening the chest and unlocking a small hidden box.

Ivy went about the room with a magelight, making sure everything was in its proper place. It was obvious she knew the room well. Rumarin didn't even have to tell her where he had found the small hidden box; she immediately went to the bookcase, retrieved the box, and buffed the fingerprints from the silver lock using the hem of her skirt. Rumarin concluded she must be the Thalmor's lover. How else could she gain such familiarity with his quarters without ever being caught? And she was undeniably attractive-- he had seen the way Ancano looked at her at the party. But none of this explained why Ivy was helping Rumarin cover his tracks. The more he thought about it, the more it all bewildered him.

When Ivy was satisfied that everything was set to rights, she told him, "You're not to reveal to anyone what you saw or heard in this room."

"It's already evaporated from my brain. Nothing stays in there very long anyway," said Rumarin, hardly believing his luck. He was about to walk away with his life. 

"Ancano would kill you if he knew," said Ivy, going to the door.

Rumarin followed, eager to be on his way. "Well, I do prefer being alive, so thank you for arranging for me live another day."

Ivy turned to him with such a scorching look that Rumarin flinched. She told him, "The only reason I haven't killed you myself is because your worthless body would leave a mess that I have no desire to clean up or explain to the College."

"Oh."

"If anyone else comes snooping here after this, people from the Thalmor Embassy will come looking for you. And when they find you, you'll wish I had killed you."

"I-- er--"

With one sharp motion Ivy opened the door. "Get out."

Rumarin hurried out of the room, almost tripping in his haste, and the door slammed behind him. Though his heart raced from the thought that he had come close to a bad end, he soon collected himself and made his way back to the party. He judged it safest to make another appearance and act as if he had been enjoying the festivities the whole time.

Now as he trudged through the snow, Rumarin thought over everything that happened in the Thalmor's room. He still didn't understand why Ivy had let him go free, why she had even erased evidence of his intrusion. She could have killed him or turned him over to Ancano; the College wouldn't care about the death of a lowlife trespasser. Ivy must have wanted to avoid drawing undue attention to herself, it was the only thing that made any sense. But why?

Rumarin had worried about what he would tell the Stormcloak officer in Fort Kastav. His report would need to sound convincing without revealing anything that would excite the Stormcloak's interest in whatever the Thalmor was up to. Rumarin had no wish to test Ivy's threat-- the thought of being hunted and dragged back to the Thalmor Embassy filled him with a dread beyond anything a Stormcloak lieutenant might do to him.

Not that it matters anymore, thought Rumarin. He doubted he would ever get to Fort Kastav. Winterhold was far behind them and still there was no sign of J'zargo.

They were passing Saarthal now, an ancient Nord burial place that the College had turned into a research site. The wooden scaffoldings were newly constructed, and Rumarin spotted the remains of a campfire, but otherwise there were no signs of life. Perhaps everyone had packed up and gone home. Rumarin had heard a little of Saarthal back at the College, and he would have been tempted to explore the crypt if they had time. Then again, the mages had probably taken everything of value.

Rumarin pointed at the scaffoldings and told Mehra, "I didn't think the College mages had it in them to construct anything, given the state of their bridge. Maybe this was someone else's project first and the College stole it." After a pause he added, "Or they probably just hired some villagers to do the work, but I like my stolen project theory better."

"Maybe," said Mehra, staring listlessly at the dig site. Normally she showed more curiosity about such things, but since they left Winterhold she seemed to retreat further and further into herself. Rumarin supposed she was worried about J'zargo and wasn't used to such hard travel through the mountains. Or perhaps his earlier protests about the journey had dampened her spirits. Maybe all those things at once. Rumarin considered saying something to draw her out, then decided that would be unwise-- his own mood was still sour and he didn't trust himself to strike the right tone.

Saarthal was well behind them when the sky grew ominous, dark clouds rolling in from the north. The day was almost over, the light fading fast. Looking toward the Sea of Ghosts, Rumarin could hardly make out where the gray water ended and the gray sky began.

Snow started falling, and Rumarin fell deeper into a black mood. They had come too far to turn back, they still hadn't found J'zargo, and now the weather was turning bad. Why had he agreed to go on this bloody trek through the mountains to find a Khajiit he didn't even like? He should have pushed harder for the highway route. No, he should have cleared out of Winterhold sooner.

That morning when Rumarin packed up and left the College, he was trying to make up his mind about whether to look for Mehra in town. He had hesitated because he felt sure Mehra would ask to travel with him. Rumarin didn't want the burden of looking after her when he had troubles enough of his own, yet he also didn't want to face the unpleasant business of telling her no. It was on his mind to sidestep the dilemma and leave Winterhold without saying goodbye, but that ceased to be an option when Mehra found him and asked for his help.

The snow fell thick and fast now, and the wind tore at them. With the sun setting they would soon be stumbling in darkness. Rumarin pulled at his tattered cloak and told Mehra, "We'll get frostbite in our fingers and toes or worse if we don't find shelter soon. Personally I'd like to avoid losing any of my appendages."

"But what if J'zargo is lost in all this?" said Mehra, shivering and trying to wrap her fur cloak around herself. "He might freeze to death, or-- or he might..."

It would serve the damned fool right, thought Rumarin. Out loud he said, "J'zargo had a good head-start, so with any luck he's well ahead of this mess. Anyway, we won't do him much good if we freeze ourselves."

They edged toward the base of the mountains to seek out a cave, or at least an alcove that would protect them from the worst of the weather, but Rumarin wasn't optimistic. The storm was growing worse, daylight was nearly gone, and they couldn't depend on luck to guide them. Rumarin hated it, but they would have to make their own shelter.

Mehra looked confused when Rumarin told her what they had to do. "But we don't even have a tent," she said.

"We're going to make our own cave."

"How?"

"Using a trick from one of the few books I've bothered with." Rumarin motioned for Mehra to follow him. He went up to a good snowdrift, summoned a glowing axe from Oblivion, and began digging at the snow. The axe wasn't made for such a task, but it was getting the job done. Rumarin wondered if the Daedra would be offended or amused to know that one of their weapons was being put to work as a glorified shovel.

After watching a while, Mehra took out her sword and tried to help with the digging when Rumarin stepped aside for a break. The sword proved little better than a stick for the job, and she soon gave up and started using her gloved hands to work at the snow. It was an awkward and exhausting undertaking, but they soon dug out a crude little cavern. Once Mehra got the lantern lit, they plugged up the entrance with large chunks of snow, leaving a gap for air.

Rumarin sagged into his partially unwrapped bedroll and groaned. He regretted not making the cave bigger. The two of them barely had enough space to sit apart, let alone fully spread out their bedrolls, but his energy was spent.

"I wouldn't have thought of digging a cave. It's not as cold I thought it would be. Where did you learn about it?" asked Mehra, wrapping herself in her cloak.

Rumarin rubbed his temples, wishing his headache would ease off. "Hm? Oh, snow shelters like this aren't unheard of in places like Skyrim or Bruma. Though they're much more fun to make when you don't actually need them."

"But you said you learned it from a book?"

"Yes, 'How to Dig Snow Caves for Fun and Profit,'" said Rumarin, hoping the flippant lie would put Mehra off. Between aching limbs and a splitting headache, he was in no mood to reminisce about the days when Otero read books to him-- days he would never know again.

Mehra apparently took the hint and went quiet.

Rumarin kept his eyes on the gap to the outside, where the snow fell and the wind howled. Their little shelter was less than comfortable, but it would protect them from the worst of the elements. Already the walls of snow were beginning to glisten from the trapped heat of the lantern.

"It's bad out there. I hope J'zargo found shelter," said Mehra.

"He's probably beaten us to Dawnstar by now." Rumarin doubted it, but he saw no point in worrying Mehra with speculation about J'zargo's fate.

Mehra couldn't seem to get settled in. She kept making adjustments to her bedroll, struggling in vain to make it lie flat, sometimes moving her bag or sword or lantern. It was all Rumarin could do to bite his tongue and contain his annoyance.

Then came the rustle of paper as Mehra pulled something out of her pocket.

Rumarin sighed and turned to look at her. Noticing the envelope in her hands he asked, "Is that anything interesting?"

"Something from Tirel," said Mehra, staring at it. After a moment she shoved it into her bag unopened.

"You're not going to read it?"

"No."

"I would, assuming my simple brain could make sense of the handwriting. You never know, it could be some sort of explanation or apology." Rumarin shrugged and added, "Or maybe it just confirms he's a rat fart who ought to transfer to a college built by sewer mages. Though I can't imagine even a sewer college being much worse than the school we just left."

Mehra looked away and said nothing, her face partially hidden by her dark hair.

Rumarin was about to reach into his bag to rummage for food when he heard Mehra ask, "Did you know?"

"Did I know what?"

"About the wager."

Rumarin bit back a sigh. The wager wasn't something he cared to discuss, especially when he was sore and tired and hungry. "No, I didn't."

Mehra twisted a corner of her cloak in her hands. "But last night at the party, when I asked if you knew what J'zargo meant... when he said..."

Rumarin avoided her eye and tried to sort out what to say. He was as much at a loss now as he was last night when he had come upon Mehra after the party, when she tearfully told him of Tirel's wager. Rumarin had been unable to think of anything helpful say, except to suggest she ask Lenari to help her find another place to stay if she wished to avoid Tirel.

When the silence grew uncomfortable Rumarin said, "I didn't know about the wager. I may have heard idle gossip about Golden Boy having some flings, but that's all." Rumarin decided not to mention that he had in fact heard of other conquests, which was why he had not been surprised.

"But you didn't..." Mehra trailed off, still twisting the edge of her cloak.

"Didn't what? Tell you that the only person in that bloody school who seemed to make you happy might or might not be a frivolous playboy?"

"But--" Mehra stopped. Very quietly she said, "Never mind. I shouldn't have asked."

Rumarin closed his eyes and rubbed his temples again. The headache refused to go away.

Mehra was soon making adjustments to her sleeping space again. She was taking forever to settle down, and finally Rumarin lost all patience and snapped, "This isn't exactly the Tiber Septim Hotel, and that bedroll is never going to behave like a proper bed. We might as well wait for one of the local mountain goats to bring us some hot tea."

Mehra turned away from him, hiding her face against her knees. Rumarin angled himself away to give her more space and wished he had kept his mouth shut. There was no privacy for either of them in this cramped space, nowhere to go except out into the freezing wind.

"You should probably throw something at me," said Rumarin. "It might help."

Mehra made no sign of hearing him.

Rumarin began rummaging through his bag. "I might even have something you could throw. Oh, we're in luck, here's a dinner roll. I bet it's stale enough to make an excellent projectile weapon."

Mehra uncovered her face and looked at him, gradually taking an interest in what he was doing. "Is that food from the party?" she asked.

"Mostly." Rumarin offered her a crumbling piece of almond cake.

Mehra took it and thanked him. "I actually don't have very much of my own food left."

"Neither do I, which is why I snagged things from the banquet tables. It's all a little mashed and crumbly now, but it has to be better than this three-week-old skeever jerky."

"That's not skeever jerky." Mehra paused and looked uncertain. "Is it?"

"These days I suspect any unidentified meat product comes from either rats or skeevers." Rumarin munched on some leftover candied nuts and pulled out more pickings from the College-- wedges of hard cheese, dried bits of fruit, several bottles of sloshing liquid.

Mehra stared at the small corked bottles. "Wait. Are those--?"

"Potions? Maybe," said Rumarin with a grin.

She leaned closer for a better look. "Healing potions? But how did...?" she avoided his eye and left the question unfinished.

"I expect they magically snuck into my bag when nobody was looking. These things happen sometimes."

Mehra started to reply, then stopped. She wore a deeply troubled look that made Rumarin feel a sting of shame, which in turn made him feel indignant.

"The way I see it, the College owes us something," said Rumarin. "Those mages took our phial and gave us nothing in return, which amounts to theft. I just extracted my own payment."

"Yes, but..."

"But what?" Rumarin shoved the potions back into his bag. "I should be the better elf and walk away with nothing but my scruples? Have you ever tried feeding yourself or paying for a night at the inn with scruples?"

"No," said Mehra, her eyes downcast.

Their little snow shelter felt too small, too enclosed. They had no room to even stand upright. Rumarin turned away to check on the gap to the outside. The wind was still up, though perhaps less intense now. Needing to get away for a moment, Rumarin began pushing at the chunks of snow blocking the entrance.

Mehra looked up with concern. "What are you doing?"

"If you must know, my bladder wants emptying and I'm not in the habit in peeing where I sleep. I may be low on scruples, but I do have some standards."

Rumarin crept out into the bitter cold night. The snow still fell and the wind still shrilled, though it had lost some of its strength. After making an effort to partly cover the entrance behind him, Rumarin walked a short distance to find a place to relieve himself.

When Rumarin was done he stared up at the sky, all clouded over, offering no glimpse of the stars. He shoved his hands into his pockets to warm them and thought over his earlier outburst. For the most part he was used to shrugging off disapproving remarks and insults, often deflecting them back as jokes, yet Mehra had rattled him with only a look. She had barely said anything at all about the stolen potions, but the dismay in her eyes was somehow enough to put him on edge.

The wind sharpened and Rumarin shivered and adjusted his robes. He wished he had another shelter to retreat to so he wouldn't have to face Mehra again just yet. Between the cramped space they were forced to share, a lack of creature comforts such as hot food and bathing water, and his own worries about debts and bounty hunters, Rumarin doubted his ability to put on a good face and pretend nothing was wrong. They were in for a long and awkward night.

When Rumarin could stand the gusts no longer he returned to the shelter, guided back by lantern light shining through the gap. He was surprised to see that Mehra had started unblocking the entrance.

"It's my turn to ask what you're doing," said Rumarin once he got inside and started pulling large chunks of snow back into place.

"You were gone a while, and the weather is still bad," said Mehra, drawing back and looking embarrassed. "I was beginning to worry."

Rumarin wasn't sure what to say to that. It had been a long time since anyone expressed much concern for his welfare. "Oh, well, there's not much to worry about. Most creatures know better than to eat elves like me. I'm full of bad jokes, which means I taste terrible. No, wait, that doesn't work, we were talking about the weather, not ravenous animals. See, my jokes really are that bad."

In the awkward silence that followed, Rumarin pulled his cloak about himself like a blanket and kept his eyes on the gap to the outside. "We'll need to make sure that hole doesn't get covered up with snow," he said. "If we both go to sleep, we might suffocate and wake up dead tomorrow. Which would be dreadfully inconvenient, not to mention embarrassing."

"Shall we take turns keeping watch?" asked Mehra.

"I suppose we could flip for it," said Rumarin, reaching into his bag for a septim.

The coin toss ended with Mehra taking the first watch. Rumarin settled into his bedroll, but sleep refused to come. The snow cave kept out the wind, but it still wasn't warm enough to suit him, and he tossed and turned. After so much of this Rumarin sat up abruptly and said, "This is hopeless. I may as well take over."

Mehra was a long time getting to sleep, and when she did Rumarin could see it was a troubled, fitful sleep. Sometimes she stirred and mumbled something, sometimes she woke again with a start. When Mehra finally slipped off into something resembling slumber, the cloak she had been using as a blanket was in disarray. Rumarin reached out to carefully pull the cloak back over her, then turned back to the gap of their shelter to watch the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumarin is a character from Kris Takahashi's [Interesting NPCs mod](http://3dnpc.com/).
> 
> Tags and labels to be added or changed as the story demands.
> 
> Special thanks to my husband for beta-reading everything, offering suggestions and ideas, pointing out things I overlooked, listening to me vent when I'm struggling with tricksy details, and more.


	2. Thunder

Early in the morning Rumarin and Mehra prepared to leave their snow cave. Rumarin felt stiff from the cold and had gotten so little sleep that it was a torment to keep his eyes open. Mehra looked as tired as he was, her movements sluggish as she put her gear in order.

"So what was all that about skeevers last night?" asked Rumarin with a yawn.

Mehra stopped what she was doing and looked confused. "Skeevers?"

"You don't remember?"

"No," said Mehra, but her face colored.

"Really? That's a shame. I was counting on you to clear up that mystery," said Rumarin. He wondered whether he should tell Mehra of her outburst in the night. After Mehra had slept a little, she suddenly popped up in a fright and began protesting against something, saying over and over, "I can't do it, I can't, it'll all go wrong." Rumarin had tried to get her to explain what she was going on about, but Mehra seemed neither to see nor hear him. Then she slumped back down, murmuring something about skeevers.

Mehra made nervous adjustments to her bedroll, which was already wrapped and secured. "I don't always sleep well anymore."

"Bad dreams?"

Mehra's hair fell forward, hiding her face. "I suppose they are. I just don't always remember them."

Rumarin was about to ask another question about these supposedly unremembered dreams, but it was obvious Mehra didn't want to talk about them. "Well, I suppose Dawnstar isn't going to come to us," he said, yawning again. "Let me just conjure up the energy for another hike."

They crawled out of the snow cave to an overcast morning. The winds were calmer and no more snow fell, but clouds hid the sun and made the sky gray.

"Do you think it might storm again?" asked Mehra, eyeing the gloom.

Rumarin rubbed his tired eyes and studied the sky. "I couldn't say. But the wind isn't trying to rip my cloak off, so I'll assume that's a good sign."

Mehra turned her eyes westward, taking in the rough terrain ahead of them, craggy, uneven, full of treacherous places to slip and fall. "I hope J'zargo is all right," she said.

"J'zargo got himself all the way from Elsweyr to Skyrim in one piece. I'm sure he's fine," said Rumarin, feeling sure of no such thing. Even an experienced traveler could easily perish in a brutal winter storm, especially at night. J'zargo could be lost or hurt or worse, but Rumarin saw no good in mentioning this to Mehra.

They trudged through snow, making their way around boulders and ledges. Mehra moved with less energy than before, stumbling more than she had yesterday, and Rumarin had to check his pace to match hers.

Rumarin wished for some sign of civilization-- a bridge, a hut, a campfire, anything. Save for the statue of Azura towering over the distant peaks behind them, there was nothing, only rocks and snow, the occasional stand of towering pines, and the sea to the north.

At least we've been lucky so far, thought Rumarin. They had survived a bad snow storm and met with nothing more dangerous than rabbits and wild goats. On the other hand, they were low on food and hadn't enjoyed a good meal since the party. Rumarin was tempted to catch a rabbit for its meat, but the few they spotted always darted off before he could summon a bow.

In the afternoon they came upon an ancient structure of crumbling stone jutting up from one of the slopes. For a moment Rumarin's hopes rose, but they quickly sank again when he realized what he was looking at.

"What is that?" asked Mehra, pointing.

"I believe that's a Dwemer ruin," said Rumarin. He looked about, hoping to spot an easy route that would take them around, but the only other option was to follow the edge of a canyon down to the Sea of Ghosts, effectively a dead end. With a sigh he started uphill toward the ruins.

"Maybe that's Alftand," said Mehra, following. "I heard Ti-- I mean, at the College, I heard about a ruin this way."

"Alftand. Finally a Dwemer word I can pronounce. They say there's another one called Mzin... Mzoon... blast, is it just me or do Dwemer have something against vowels?"

They continued up the slope until at last they reached the ruins. Rumarin knew Dwemer ruins attracted explorers and bandits alike, but nonetheless he was surprised to find the ancient structures of bronze and stone surrounded by the tumbledown remains of scaffoldings and wooden buildings. Researchers had evidently made a serious effort to study the ruins, but by the looks of things they had long since abandoned the project. Or they had all perished.

Occasionally Rumarin paused to check one of the wood buildings in hopes of finding valuables to loot, but each time he came away disappointed. They were all empty rotting shells.

Mehra stared at what was left of the scaffoldings. "I wonder why they all left. The people researching this place, I mean."

Rumarin shrugged. "Perhaps they ran out of funding. Running out of money is how a lot of trouble gets started."

"I've heard of Dwemer ruins but I never saw one before. Is it true they're full of machines?"

"Yes, full of machines and automatons that think skewering you is a nice way to say hello, which is why we're not knocking on the doors," said Rumarin, skirting around a stone building that reminded him of a mausoleum. Despite the dangers he felt some regret at leaving the ruins unexplored, knowing that such places were often full of marvelous treasures. But there was a reason why many Dwemer ruins had yet to be picked clean: Most treasure-seekers who ventured into them never came out again. Desperate for money as he was, Rumarin was not disposed to gamble with his life in a Dwemer ruin, especially with Mehra in tow.

When the ruins were behind them Rumarin paused to study the routes ahead. On a mountain ledge some distance to the northwest was a stone structure, perhaps an old watchtower or fort. Rumarin pointed at the tower and told Mehra, "That looks promising. Let's try that way, shall we?"

But Mehra didn't answer. She had stopped to stare up at the ridge of the southern mountains.

"What is it?" asked Rumarin. He trained his eyes on the slopes above the ruins, but he saw nothing amiss.

"Did you hear that? Just now?" asked Mehra.

Rumarin listened, but all he heard was the wind. Then his ears caught the lonely cry of a wolf.

"That's nothing we can't handle," said Rumarin, doing his best to sound reassuring. "Any wolf that's stupid enough to come after us will end up as dinner. I wonder what wolf tastes like?"

"That's not what I heard," said Mehra. She let her gaze drop, her face growing flushed. "Maybe it's nothing."

"This feels an awful lot like the old hearing problem, which I now surmise was code for 'a dragon is shouting in my head'. Is he up to his old tricks again?" Rumarin meant to make light of the situation, but the words came out sounding wrong-- like mockery, in fact. He saw Mehra's brief look of hurt and wished he had held his tongue.

"No. This is different," said Mehra.

"Different how?"

"Just... just different."

"That's not very much to go on," said Rumarin, but he grew uneasy. Something in the air had changed, though he couldn't say what, and he wasn't sure he trusted what his senses were telling him. He suspected his imagination was reacting to Mehra's own fear.

Then Rumarin heard a low and deep sound. Mehra looked up at the clouded sky and trembled as though she expected to be struck down by lighting.

"Sounds like another storm," said Rumarin, but the sight of Mehra's terror took away his certainty. He grew afraid without knowing why.

"We have to hide," said Mehra. Before Rumarin could answer she was pulling at his arm, urging him towards a rocky outcrop. Rumarin's instincts told him not to argue or ask questions-- he followed her at once.

They slipped between some boulders and crouched in the shadows there. Mehra looked out at the sky, her eyes wide and watchful.

They waited for some time, hearing nothing but the wind from the north. Gradually Rumarin lost his fear. The sound they heard was only thunder after all. He started to get up.

"Don't," whispered Mehra, looking up at him with alarm.

"Why? What do you think is out there?" asked Rumarin.

Mehra started to answer, but she stopped and hesitated.

"A dragon?"

Mehra nodded.

Rumarin leaned out to peer around the boulder. The mountains were still, the skies empty. The only living things in sight were several elk loping through the snow to the north.

"No dragons today," said Rumarin, putting more cheer into his words than he felt. "But it sounds as if there's another storm brewing. Shall we get moving? If we're quick, we can find shelter in that tower. That should be a nice change from a snow cave."

Mehra shook her head and refused to move.

Rumarin wanted to groan. He knew Mehra had a dragon soul in her head that sometimes spoke and shouted, or so she said. He could well imagine how such a thing might strain her mind and make her startle at anything that sounded remotely like a dragon. At any other time he might have been sympathetic, but his energy was wearing out, and so was his patience.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, unless of course you're terrified of elk," said Rumarin, pointing at the animals to the north. He tried to speak lightly, but annoyance had put an edge in his voice.

Again Mehra shook her head. "We're not safe."

Rumarin felt very tired. His legs were growing sore from their long hike through rough country. His ears and hands and feet were numb from cold. He never wanted to come on this miserable journey in the first place. There was absolutely nothing in it for him and he only gave in because he let Mehra guilt him into it, all to find a Khajiit who had done nothing but insult him and put on airs and give away the White Phial.

Mehra continued, "If it spots us--"

"The dragon? What dragon?" Rumarin waved his arms at the empty sky. "There isn't any bloody dragon."

"I'm not going mad. I'm not." Mehra was no longer looking at him and seemed almost to be talking to herself now.

"Do you want to find J'zargo or not?"

"Of course I--"

"Well you're not going to find him by sitting in the snow. Unless there's some trick to this I don't know about."

Mehra gave no answer. She studied the sky again, her face uncertain. After a moment her expression hardened. She got to her feet and started walking downhill, picking her way around steep ledges and crags. Rumarin followed in silence, feeling a bit better now that they were on their way to the tower. He was curious to know what was inside.

Again came the deep rumbling sound. Mehra started and looked wildly about.

Oh Gods not this again, thought Rumarin. He was on the point of saying something churlish when the thunder sounded again, low and terrible and closer than before.

A quick movement drew Rumarin's eyes upward, and what he saw almost stopped his heart. High in the gray sky, a shadow wheeled like a great bird, huge wings beating like those of a bat. But the creature was neither bird nor bat. It's not real, it can't be real, thought Rumarin.

The dragon--for it could be nothing else--touched down on a mountain peak, sending up a cloud of snow as it lashed its tail and let out a bellow that raked the sky and made stones shake.

Rumarin ran for cover, but Mehra slipped on a patch of ice and fell behind. Rumarin cursed and doubled back to haul Mehra to her feet and half-drag her along, every instant expecting the winged monster to dive down and crush them or impale them or roast them or whatever horrible things dragons did to their prey.

They fled behind another rock, shaking and out of breath. Rumarin almost summoned a bow but stopped himself. What good would a few pitiful arrows do against such a beast? And the glow of a conjured weapon would only make them easier to spot.

Another deafening roar made the ground tremble. Mehra shut her eyes and held her head between her hands. Rumarin offered up a silent prayer to whatever gods happened to be listening, promising to make a better show of devotion if they would only intervene. He had made such promises before and broken them all, but that never stopped him.

Rumarin heard the beat of wings, felt the rise of the wind, saw everything become shadow as the beast glided over them. Rumarin's breath caught in his throat, and he fully expected it to circle back for them. Instead the creature dove and snatched a fleeing elk in its claws. The dragon carried off its prey, disappearing behind the crest of a distant mountain, bellowing as it went.

"Auri-El," gasped Rumarin. After such a fright his remaining strength deserted him, and he struggled to keep from falling over.

Mehra still knelt in the snow, holding her head in her hands and keeping her eyes squeezed shut.

"That certainly could have gone a lot worse," said Rumarin after he had sufficiently recovered himself. That he was still alive after such an experience left him feeling lightheaded, almost exhilarated.

Mehra didn't lift her head, didn't seem aware of him at all. Rumarin had seen her like this before and wondered if the dragon soul she carried was acting up. He tried again: "I suppose I can scratch 'almost get killed by a dragon' off from my list of things to do today."

Mehra opened her eyes and looked up at him in confusion. "What did you say?"

"Nothing of consequence, just reassuring myself that I'm still alive and not some dragon's dinner. Also, you're well within your rights to whack me over the head and say, 'See, I told you so!'"

"I don't understand any of it," said Mehra, her voice shaking.

"Any of what?"

"Why the dragons are coming back. Where they're even coming from. And... what does it have to do with me? What am I supposed to do about it? What can anyone do?"

Rumarin heard the despair in her voice and grew nervous. If Mehra were to break down he wouldn't know what to do. He looked up at the sky. It was well past noon. They needed to get moving if they were going to make the tower in the distance before the sun was down.

"Best not to think about any of that right now. We still have to find J'zargo," said Rumarin, hoping that bringing Mehra's attention back to their search would prop up her spirits, or at least distract her.

Mentioning J'zargo seemed to work. Mehra rubbed her hand across her eyes, and to Rumarin's relief she picked herself up to continue the rest of their journey.

They carefully went downhill, the afternoon dragging on as they moved through the rough and broken land. Crags and rocks and places thick with snow slowed their progress, and for a long time it seemed the tower would stay forever out of reach.

They finally came to the mountain path leading up to the tower, but the journey was far from over. To Rumarin's eyes it didn't seem a great distance, but his sore feet and aching muscles soon told him otherwise. They paused often on the steep path to catch their breath. Mehra looked pale and miserable, and Rumarin feared she would finally give out and quit entirely. But she always got up again.

At last they reached the tower, an old building of stone on a mountain ledge. Mehra sank down on a flat rock to rest a moment, and Rumarin did the same. The place offered a splendid view of everything there was to see-- the Dwemer ruins, the Sea of Ghosts, and the statue of Azura rising above the mountain range. But Rumarin was far more interested in other things, such as a pile of firewood, a walkway cleared of snow, and a sign hanging over the door.

"Look at that," said Rumarin. "Someone actually lives here. Civilization at last! But my brain is too tired to make sense of that sign. What does it say?"

"It says 'Frostflow Tower Inn,'" said Mehra, still breathing hard. "I wonder if J'zargo stopped here?"

"Let's find out." Rumarin slowly got to his feet, offered Mehra a hand up, and together they went to the door. He was about to knock when the door cracked open. A Redguard woman with graying hair peered out at them.

"Hello, can we come in?" asked Rumarin. "We're trying to avoid becoming a dragon's dinner today."

The woman's eyes widened. "The dragon? Has it returned?" she asked in a thick Hammerfell accent.

"Not to worry, it's gone. At any rate it didn't come back to eat us."

The woman regarded them with a peculiar expression. Rumarin couldn't tell if she was making up her mind as to whether he and Mehra were a threat or whether they had the coin to pay for room and board. After a moment she opened the door wider and motioned them inside.

They followed her into a simply furnished round room warmed by a blazing fireplace. Both the heat of the fire and the smell of cooking food did much to improve Rumarin's mood.

The woman called, "Come on out, Sudi. We have visitors."

A Redguard girl of about thirteen or fourteen came in from an adjoining room and paused to stare curiously at Rumarin and Mehra.

"Don't just stand there," said the older woman, going to the fireplace to stir a pot of stew. "You know what to do."

Instantly Sudi went into action, clearing a sewing project away from the table, bringing out a loaf of bread, laying out plates.

"I think your daughter just got more done in ten seconds than I usually accomplish in ten hours," said Rumarin as he watched Sudi work. "I'm Rumarin, by the way, and this is Mehra."

"I'm called Ramati, and this is Sudi," said the woman, pausing to sample the stew and add a pinch of salt.

"Is it just you two running this place?" asked Rumarin.

"My husband Habd is in town selling wares." Ramati added in a low sad voice, "We have a son too, but he returned to Hammerfell."

"Mani said he didn't like how cold and lonely it is in Skyrim," said Sudi. From the way she frowned Rumarin guessed she shared her brother's opinion of Skyrim.

"Please," said Mehra, "has a Khajiit been this way? His name is J'zargo, and he's on his way to Dawnstar."

"A Khajiit?" asked Ramati. "Yes, he stopped here late yesterday. A friend of yours?"

"Yes, he is, did he seem all right?" said Mehra, talking fast in her excitement.

"He was fit, but he was quiet and had little to say for himself," said Ramati. "Sudi, bring the bowls."

"He seemed very sad," said Sudi after fetching the bowls for her mother. "I tried talking to him, but he would hardly look at me. He wouldn't even tell us his name. He said it wasn't important, that his name wasn't worth knowing."

"At least we know he made it ahead of the storm in one piece," said Rumarin, seeing Mehra's growing despondence and hoping to bring her out of it. He asked Ramati, "When did J'zargo leave?"

"The Khajiit left this morning for Dawnstar," said Ramati. She picked up a ladle. "The stew is ready, it'll warm you right up. Three septims for a bowl."

"What kind of stew is it?" asked Rumarin, taking a seat at the table.

"Goat stew."

"Really," said Rumarin, careful to keep a grimace off his face. "I don't suppose it comes with any accompaniments or side dishes?"

"For two septims more you can have goat cheese."

Rumarin sighed. At least the stew would fill him up. He reached into his pocket for septims, but to his surprise Mehra had already counted out enough coins to cover both their meals.

The stew proved better than Rumarin expected, hot and well spiced. He soon drained his bowl and started cutting into the loaf of bread on the table. Mehra ate with less gusto; she spent far more time staring at her food than eating it, letting her stew get cold.

Ramati told Mehra, "You should eat. A hard place like Skyrim wears down even the big strong Nords." She turned stern eyes on Rumarin. "What were you thinking, leading this poor little creature through the mountains? And during a storm no less?"

Rumarin almost choked on the piece of bread he was eating. "It wasn't my idea! We would have taken the nice safe highway out of Winterhold if I'd had my way."

"It's true," said Mehra, absently stirring her stew. "I insisted on coming this way because I wanted to catch up with J'zargo."

"And you let her talk you into it?" asked Ramati, hands on her hips.

"Of course. Don't let that meek facade fool you, Mehra could pulverize me if she had a mind to. I'm a rather delicate elf after all. I mean look at me." Rumarin held up his arms and let his wrists go limp. "I'm surprised I can lift anything at all."

Ramati shook her head, but Sudi giggled.

Through the walls they heard a low rumble, a sound that Rumarin could have dismissed as thunder or a rockslide if he hadn't just seen a dragon with his own eyes. Rumarin looked to Mehra, but she took little notice of the noise and calmly went on eating.

"Oh Gods the dragon is back," said Sudi, shrinking against her mother. "What are we going to do?" Ramati shushed her and put her arms around her daughter.

The rumbling started up again, louder this time. Rumarin looked at Mehra again but saw no fear in her. After considering this, he got up and went to the door.

"Oh no, be careful," Sudi called after him.

Rumarin opened the door just enough to look outside. To the east the sky was nearly black, storm clouds pouring rain over the distant mountains. Lightning struck one of the peaks, briefly illuminating the statue of Azura, and seconds later a deafening sound tore through the air like the shout of a god-- or a dragon. But it was only thunder.

"It's just rain, thank the Eight," said Rumarin as he closed the door. "I think we've all had our fill of dragons today."

Ramati let go of Sudi and sank into a chair. "I wish my Habd would hurry back," said the woman, sounding weary.

"The dragon-- when did you first see it?" asked Mehra.

Sudi said in a rush, "We started hearing it yesterday, only we thought it was another storm but it wasn't, it was a big dragon, bigger than this whole tower."

Ramati studied the visitors. "Are the two of you going to Dawnstar?"

"That's the idea," said Rumarin.

"When you're in town, would you do a favor for us?"

Rumarin didn't like the sound of this. He was still crafting his response when to his dismay he heard Mehra say, "Of course." She glanced at Rumarin and, perhaps sensing his annoyance, she hastily added, "I mean, that is, I'll do it if I'm able."

Ramati said, "Please find my husband Habd and tell him what's going on. Tell him we need him back home."

"All right," said Mehra.

"And tell Jarl Skald as well. Ask him to send people to hunt down the dragon."

"Maybe the Dragonborn will come and kill it, just like she killed the dragon in Whiterun," said Sudi.

Rumarin stifled a laugh. He knew he shouldn't be amused, not when Sudi spoke so seriously and Mehra looked so mortified, but he couldn't help it. Dragonborn or not, the idea of Mehra slaying dragons was absurd.

"I... yes, I'll tell the jarl, if he'll see me," said Mehra, her face red with embarrassment.

"Just be careful when you're in town," said Ramati, standing up to clear away the empty bowls. "Habd says he has been seeing rough people there lately."

"What sort of rough people?" asked Rumarin.

"Habd says there have been more thefts. The guards can't keep up with it all. The jarl has put out bounties, but that attracts people who are often bad themselves. Mercenaries and bounty hunters."

"Ah," said Rumarin, swallowing down his anxiety. He reminded himself that Dawnstar was a long way from Riften. Surely word of his debt to Sarthis Idren hadn't traveled that far. But another part of Rumarin's mind told him it was possible, even likely. After all, he had hired a cart driver to travel from Windhelm to Whiterun in hopes of leading Jaree-Ra and other bounty hunters on a false trail. If they fell for the ruse, they wouldn't give up the hunt; they would simply search other cities and towns. Given its location between Windhelm and Whiterun, Dawnstar would be a logical place to start.

Ramati's sharp voice broke through his thoughts. "Did you hear what I said?"

Rumarin saw that Mehra was looking at him with concern. He forced a smile and told Ramati, "Sorry, my mind got loose and wandered around, it does that sometimes. You were saying?"

"I asked if you'll be staying the night. The walk to Dawnstar isn't short. You won't make it before dark."

Rumarin welcomed an excuse to put off going to Dawnstar, especially if it meant getting a bath and a good night's sleep in a warm bed. But a glance at Mehra told him at once that she was anxious to be on their way.

"J'zargo might not stay in Dawnstar long," said Mehra. "He might be gone if we don't make it soon."

Rumarin sighed. So much for that. He could scarcely avoid going to Dawnstar anyway; there were no other towns for miles and he had to get his boots mended before they fell apart.

Daylight was fading fast when Rumarin and Mehra left Frostflow Tower, their packs a little heavier with food that Ramati had sold them cheap, most of it cheese and strips of goat meat. Rumarin wasn't fond of salted meats, but he was even less fond of going hungry. Not having to worry about food for a while did much for his spirits.

They could still hear the storm raging in the east, but fortunately it didn't seem to be coming their way. They followed the path west down the mountain slope, going slow and taking care not to slip on rocks or ice. As they walked Rumarin tried not to think about bounty hunters that might or might not be in Dawnstar. He also tried not to think about the monstrous dragon that could have devoured him and Mehra earlier that day. The distant thunder did nothing to ease his anxieties-- it sounded too much like the dragon.

"I think we're safe for now," said Mehra.

"Safe from what?" asked Rumarin.

"From... you know," said Mehra. She added quietly, "You keep looking for it in the sky."

"I'm just hoping we don't get rained on," said Rumarin, turning his eyes away from the sky and adjusting his hood. It unnerved him sometimes, the way Mehra often picked up on his moods.

It was dusk when they came to a wooded area. Walking through the pine forest, Rumarin's thoughts kept returning to the dragon. It was a lucky thing the beast never took notice of them. If it had attacked, there was no doubt in Rumarin's mind that he and Mehra would be nothing but stains in the snow. He suppressed a shudder.

Rumarin had already known dragons were coming back to the world, but none of it had felt quite real. Now that he had seen a dragon with his own eyes Rumarin had to believe it. He could almost credit the prophecies of the Dragonborn as well-- except that Mehra clearly wasn't Dragonborn material. She was no warrior and her magic had been taken from her. Why would the Gods make someone like Mehra the Dovahkiin, slayer of dragons? It made no sense. Unless the Gods were mad or had a vicious sense of humor.

"So what's the plan?" asked Rumarin, wanting to break the silence and put dragons out of his mind for a while.

"Sorry?" asked Mehra.

"Once we get to Dawnstar and find J'zargo. Then what?"

"I... I hadn't thought much beyond that. I just want to know J'zargo is all right, and I want him to know that I'll help him if I can. I shouldn't have turned away from him. I don't think he would have run away if he thought there was still someone he could turn to."

The growing darkness made it difficult to see far, and they paused to light Mehra's lantern. Rumarin briefly summoned a dagger for its light so Mehra could make a search for her tinderbox.

Once the lantern was lit Rumarin dismissed the dagger and asked, "All right, let's say you get everything sorted out with J'zargo. Do you suppose you'll both travel together again?"

"I hope so. If he wants."

"But where will you go?" In truth that was the very question Rumarin was asking himself. Where would he go after they reached Dawnstar? Fort Kastav was too far now. He judged it best to stay away from the Stormcloak holds for a while, in case the adjutant decided to put out the notices. Rumarin doubted any posters about Thalmor spies matching his description would spread to the Imperial territories, but bounty hunters could be looking for him anywhere. He needed safe havens.

Mehra said, "Yesterday I thought I would go home. Back to Kvatch. But now I'm not sure I should."

"Why?"

"That dragon we saw. That's the third one. There might be more now. More and more."

Rumarin didn't like to think about living in a world overrun with creatures that could eat him in one gulp. "Well, yes, but at least one of those dragons is dead. Which just goes to show you can kill almost anything if you send enough angry Nords after it."

"But the dragon that died is in my head. And he might..."

"Might what?"

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not sure." The look on Mehra's face said otherwise. Whatever she suspected was more than a vague notion. It was a vivid fear.

Rumarin tried to think of something useful to say, something that wasn't a poor jest, but nothing came to him.

Mehra continued, "I think the Greybeards are the only ones who can tell me what's to be done. But I'm afraid to go."

"There's always Whiterun," said Rumarin. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea of going to Whiterun himself. It was safer than most places in Skyrim. He doubted any of the people hunting him would be there, not after he hired the Windhelm cart driver to lead them there on a false trail. Even if there were bounty hunters in Whiterun, they would think twice about going after him, a companion of the city's own thane and Dragonborn.

"I suppose," said Mehra, looking even more dispirited. Rumarin decided against pressing her on the subject, knowing he could always bring it up again later.

They came upon a well-traveled road marked with a signs pointing the way to towns and settlements, and they paused to get their bearings. The clouds were thinning, offering glimpses of starlight.

"I think I need new feet as well as boots," said Rumarin, kneeling down to inspect a small hole in one of his boots. He wondered whether he should have them repaired or buy new ones instead.

"We're close to Dawnstar now," said Mehra, holding up the lantern as she inspected a road sign.

"I take it that's Mehra-speak for 'Stop whining, Rumarin! Get a move on!'"

"Of course not. We can stop and rest." But Mehra kept glancing at the road ahead. Though she was clearly tired and sometimes swayed on her feet, it was obvious she wanted to be on the move again.

Rumarin stood up and winced a bit. Wherever he slept tonight, he was sure to wake up sore tomorrow. "We might as well keep going. I'd rather rest my feet in a warm tavern anyway, assuming my feet haven't fallen off by the time we get there."

They followed the road north, Mehra's lantern lighting the way as the night deepened. Occasionally they passed a small thatched cottage or a fenced-off section of land, and once a dog came rushing out to bark at them. Soon the town itself came into view, a column of smoke rising from the chimney of the largest building-- Rumarin guessed it was either the tavern or the jarl's longhouse.

Rumarin squinted at a light just outside of town, bright and flickering. "I believe I see a campfire ahead."

"Yes, I see it too," said Mehra. "Do you suppose that's...?"

"Only one way to find out."

They quickened their pace and soon reached the campsite just outside the town. Seated around the fire were several Khajiit traders talking amongst themselves and enjoying steaming bowls of stew, the smell of which made Rumarin's mouth water. The traders went quiet and watched the newcomers warily.

"Hello. I mean, _dras'kay_ ," said Mehra, pausing at the edge of the camp. "We're looking for--" She stopped as her eyes met those of a Khajiit who made a distressed sound and shrank away from her. It was J'zargo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was Gary's idea to resurrect the [Frostflow Lighthouse](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Frostflow_Lighthouse) family, because any reasonable opportunity to add more life and color to Skyrim seems like a good thing. The building is really too far inland to make much sense as a lighthouse, so here it's just a tower, or maybe an old signal tower.


	3. Dawnstar

Mehra and J'zargo stared at each other. In the flickering light of the campfire J'zargo's face was full of anguish, as though the very sight of Mehra pained him. No one spoke, not Rumarin or the Khajiit traders who watched them, tense and silent.

Mehra stepped closer. "J'zargo, I--"

"No." J'zargo stood and backed away. "Why did you follow? _Kador mavos hadozay Khajiit?_ No."

"I--"

"You should not have come for this one," said J'zargo. Before Mehra could answer he turned and disappeared into one of the tents.

"Well how do you like that," said Rumarin. "We trudge through the mountains and survive a blizzard to find him, and he runs at the very sight of us. I know I haven't bathed in a couple of days, but that's hardly..." He glanced at Mehra and fell silent.

Mehra stared after J'zargo, feeling as if she were trapped in a bad dream. For the last two days her mind had been fixed on J'zargo, hoping he wasn't lost or hurt, praying he had survived the storm, wondering why he had run away without saying goodbye. Now that she had found him, instead of relief Mehra felt closer to despair.

One of the traders stood, an older Khajiit who carried herself with dignity. "Warm sands, fellow travelers," she said. "This one is called Ahkari."

Mehra introduced herself and Rumarin, stumbling over words as she tried to keep her composure. "I-- we came to-- J'zargo is my friend, I came to speak with him."

"That one has never spoken of you," said another Khajiit, his voice gruff. The heavy armor he wore marked him as a caravan guard.

"That one speaks of very little," Ahkari told him.

A young Khajiit looked up from her bowl of stew. "If these travelers are his friends, perhaps he will go away with them."

"You-- you want him to leave?" asked Mehra.

The girl Khajiit shrugged. "Zaynabi knows nothing of that one. He has not proven himself. He might be useful. Or he might not be."

Ahkari spoke sharply. " _Khajiit raj'kono zatay Khajiit, Zaynabi_."

" _Thzi_." Zaynabi bowed her head and ate her stew in silence.

Mehra pointed to the tent where J'zargo had fled. "Please, is it all right if I go in and speak with him?"

Ahkari nodded. "Yes, you may go in. Only do not be surprised if he says little in return."

"And do not steal anything," added the Khajiit guard, his eyes stern.

"Do you want me along?" asked Rumarin, kneeling by the fire to warm his hands. "I might be able to get some colorful insults out of him, though that's probably not what you had in mind."

Mehra stared at him. How could Rumarin make jokes at a time like this?

Rumarin averted his eyes. "I'll take that as a no."

Mehra grew aware of the traders watching them. Ahkari and Zaynabi were discreet about it, but the big Khajiit guard stared openly. Mehra knelt next to Rumarin and spoke quietly.

"I don't know how long I'll be," said Mehra. "Is it all right if I meet you in town? At the inn?"

"All right then," said Rumarin. Before he got up he whispered, "Might want to ask when they plan to pack up and leave, just in case. These caravans never stay in one place for long."

Mehra watched Rumarin head up the road to Dawnstar. When he was gone she picked up her lantern, edged past the campfire and slipped into the tent.

There was hardly any room to move about. Every corner of the tent was piled with crates and boxes and bulging sacks. The air was fragrant with perfumes, spices, and incense from other lands. Mehra looked about but saw no one. Then she heard a soft sound and saw the tiniest movement. J'zargo had hidden almost out of sight, pressed between two burlap sacks.

"J'zargo? It's me," said Mehra, moving closer. "Can I talk to you?"

J'zargo put his face in his hands and said nothing. Mehra's instinct was to go to him, to comfort him somehow, but she was afraid that approaching him like that would only distress him further. She knelt on the ground and worked through what she wanted to say.

"I was worried when you left," said Mehra. "I wanted to make sure you were all right. That's why Rumarin and I followed you. I want to help if I can."

J'zargo still would not look at her, but he murmured something in his own tongue, low and broken. Mehra only caught a few words-- _hadozay_ and _thjiz ja'qara_.

"I'm sorry, I don't know those words. What do they mean?"

J'zargo only shook his head.

"It's-- it's all right if you're not ready to talk," said Mehra, her voice cracking. "I'm staying in town. At the inn. I'll be there if you need me."

There was no answer from J'zargo. Mehra bowed her head, wishing to help him, knowing she couldn't. The only thing she could do for her friend now was leave him in peace. Perhaps J'zargo would be ready talk to her tomorrow.

Clinging to these hopes, Mehra took her lantern and went outside. She faltered when the Khajiit traders turned their heads to look at her.

"Did he speak with you?" asked Ahkari.

"No," said Mehra. "Except... what do _hadozay_ and _thjiz ja'qara_ mean?"

" _Hadozay_ is our word for a thing that is useless," said Ahkari. " _Thjiz ja'qara_ is 'foolish kitten' in your tongue."

"He says these things to himself often," added Zaynabi.

It was all Mehra could do to keep herself from running back into the tent. He's not ready, she told herself, you'll only make it worse. She asked Ahkari, "How much longer will you stay in Dawnstar?"

"We leave in the morning," said Ahkari.

"Tomorrow morning?" Mehra fought down a surge of panic. "Would you wait for me? Please?"

"We will wait. Only do not come too late." Ahkari regarded her with penetrating eyes. "A word of advice to you. Some things cannot be mended. Do not put all your hopes in one whose spirit is broken."

Walking to Dawnstar in the chill night, Mehra was unable to put Ahkari's words out of her head. _Some things cannot be mended_. The sad and broken Khajiit who flinched at her approach bore almost no resemblance to the J'zargo she knew, the J'zargo who was always so confident, so driven, so sure of his destiny and his place in the world. Could that J'zargo truly be gone?

Mehra stopped next to a low stone fence. The town lay only a little distance ahead. Lit windows and columns of chimney smoke promised warm firesides, yet for a long time she stood frozen, unable to summon the energy to take one more step.

The wind picked up. Mehra shivered, her breath frosting in the cold air. Clouds hid most of the sky, but thinning patches showed silvery hints of starlight. Mehra knew there was a dazzling night sky up there, if only the clouds could be swept aside. But she could no more move the clouds than she could bring J'zargo out of his despair. Part of her mind urged her to go back and make J'zargo listen to her, but she was sure it would only make matters worse. Offering help was one thing; forcing it was another.

Tomorrow, Mehra told herself. I'll go back to J'zargo tomorrow. Maybe he'll be ready to listen in the morning. With that she put away her sorrow and forced herself to walk.

Dawnstar was a port town, and in the gloom Mehra could just make out the masts of ships in the harbor. The streets were empty this time of night, but strains of singing and laughter drew Mehra to a large building, a weathered sign advertising it as the Windpeak Inn.

From the peace of the night she stepped into a place full of voices raised in song and boisterous talk. It was a shock to her senses. Even the heat of a blazing fireplace and the smell of cooking food were overpowering, and Mehra had to stop herself from slipping back out again.

Rumarin was slouching on a bench near the door. At first he perked up when he caught sight of Mehra, but as she approached he began to look uneasy. Mehra started to speak, but her words were drowned out by a group of sailors singing about Leyawiin ladies:

_Farewell and good-byes to you Leyawiin ladies_  
_Farewell and good-byes to you Leyawiin girls_  
_For we're under orders for to sail back to Windhelm_  
_And ne'er may see you fair ladies again_

Mehra sat next to Rumarin on the bench and put her head in her hands, the sounds and smells of the tavern overwhelming her.

"No luck?" Rumarin asked when the song was done.

Mehra shook her head. She winced as a cheer went up. The noise disturbed the dragon in her too. She could feel him stirring and hear him muttering curses.

"I still find it hard to believe that J'zargo of all people decided to run away from his beloved College to join a caravan," said Rumarin. "What did he have to say for himself?"

"Nothing. J'zargo wouldn't say anything."

"He wouldn't?" Rumarin's face showed a flash of annoyance. "Are you sure you don't want me to try infuriating him back to his old self? I doubt it would take much effort. I'd just have to remind him that I exist."

"I don't think that would help."

Rumarin was quiet for a while. He pulled out a coin and began playing with it. Mehra watched the nervous movements of his hands.

"I tried getting rooms for us," said Rumarin. "Unfortunately they're all taken, mostly by this lot." He waved a hand at some sailors who were placing bets on a drinking competition between one of their fellows and a local miner.

"Oh." Mehra's mind was in a fog. She had trouble focusing on what Rumarin was saying.

Rumarin went on twirling the coin in his fingers. "We could ask someone if they're willing to share a room with us."

Mehra stared at the sailors. Most of them were huge and made the inn ring with their rough talk and laughter. In her head the dragon growled.

Rumarin continued, "I didn't think you'd care for that idea. Neither do I, to tell the truth. But the alternative is sleeping under one of the tables. Or out in the snow, and I'm a little tired of snow."

Mehra forced herself to consider the problem. "Who should we ask?"

"Well, whom would you ask?"

Mehra was about to protest at having the question thrown back at her, but she couldn't muster the energy to do more than sigh. She looked around the inn for anyone who looked approachable. She noticed a dark-haired man sitting by himself and staring into the fire. At a corner table was a woman with braided blonde hair talking animatedly to the serving wench.

"Those were my top choices too," said Rumarin after Mehra pointed them out. "I think maybe the woman, though. The other one makes me uneasy."

"Why?"

"Just a feeling. I noticed earlier that he has a rather intimidating way of cleaning his fingernails with a dagger."

Mehra stared at Rumarin. There were times she couldn't tell whether he was joking, and tonight she felt especially slow and stupid.

"I think we should ask her," said Rumarin. "Though it would probably sound better coming from you."

"Me? Why?"

Rumarin rubbed the stubble on his face. "I doubt she'd appreciate a filthy unwashed elf asking if he can share her room. She might slug me."

Mehra glanced down at her own clothes, dirtied by miles of hard travel. "She might not like me asking her either."

"Maybe, but anyone with a shred of decency would consider it monstrous to slug someone like you. But slugging a big obnoxious high elf? That's high comedy in Skyrim."

Mehra said nothing. In other circumstances she might have found Rumarin's jests amusing, but now they were just one more thing demanding her attention, wearing her down.

Rumarin sighed and got up. "All right, I'll do the asking. Only don't be surprised if I come back without my head, because she'll probably bite it off."

"No, wait, I... I'll do it. I mean, I'll ask her." Mehra started to rise, feeling unsteady. To her surprise Rumarin put a hand on her shoulder, compelling her to sit back down.

"You should probably ignore me when I'm whining or exaggerating, especially both," said Rumarin. "Wait here."

Mehra watched Rumarin cross the room to speak to the woman, who looked up at him with surprise. Rumarin spoke at length, gesturing once in Mehra's direction, and the woman made a smiling reply. Feeling she should hang back no longer, Mehra got to her feet and went to them.

"So that's the situation. The two of us have-- oh, here she is," said Rumarin as Mehra came up beside him.

"Mehra, is it?" said the woman. The pouches at her belt and the knapsack by her feet gave the woman the look of someone ready for travel. Mehra couldn't decide if she was old or young. The woman's face and hands looked weathered, but there was something youthful in her eyes. "I'm Kell. So I understand you need my room?"

"Normally we wouldn't dream of asking such a thing," said Rumarin. "But we've come a long way and aren't keen to spend another night out in the snow. If it's a question of splitting the cost--"

"Well now, that depends. Do you snore much?"

"Oh no, high elves never snore, it's against our religion."

"Ha! Your friend's face says different."

Mehra stammered, "No-- no, he doesn't." Very quietly she added, "Not very much."

"What I meant to say is that it's against our religion to snore on Sundas," said Rumarin with a sidelong glance at Mehra. "Anyway, as long as we're being up front, I suppose you might as well know that one of us occasionally talks in their sleep. But other than that, we're the perfect house guests. Or room guests. You know what I mean."

The woman laughed and said, "All right, so long as you have good stories to tell and no one snores the roof off, we'll call it an even trade. Why don't you two rest your feet and join me a while?"

"Stories, is it? I think we can manage that," said Rumarin as he settled into a chair and waved to get the serving wench's attention.

Though she was glad to sit down again, Mehra would have been gladder still to fall into bed and let sleep take her. If nothing else she wanted away from the clamor of the inn, but she didn't want to be rude to the woman.

While Mehra felt her spirits flagging, Rumarin's own spirits seemed to revive once he had a tankard of mead and a plate of hot food in front of him. He began telling a little of their journey through the mountains, making it sound less like an ordeal and more like a jaunt with a few mishaps along the way.

Picking at her plate of smoked herring, Mehra only half-listened, her mind continually wandering back to J'zargo. Would he listen to her tomorrow? Would he leave Dawnstar with her?

It wasn't until Rumarin said the word "dragon" that Mehra's attention snapped to the conversation.

"Hold there," said Kell. "You mean to say you saw a dragon? An honest to Gods, dragon with teeth the size of spears?"

"Yes, we narrowly avoided becoming dragon kibble," said Rumarin.

"Oh! I nearly forgot," said Mehra. "We're-- I mean, I'm supposed to tell the jarl about that dragon. And find Ramati's husband, and--"

"What, now?" asked Rumarin. "It can keep until tomorrow, can't it? Most people are probably in bed by now, at least the hard-working, respectable types who like getting up at obscene hours in the morning."

"Besides," said Kell, "you haven't finished your story. So this dragon on the mountain, did it see you? How did you get away?"

"We were fortunate the dragon had a taste for elk," said Rumarin, going on to describe their encounter. Mehra noticed that Rumarin left out many details; he said nothing about Mehra sensing the dragon before they saw it, nor of their argument about it. Though Mehra would have preferred that Rumarin hadn't brought up dragons at all, she was glad he wasn't dropping hints about her being the Dragonborn. But she supposed Rumarin didn't believe she was anything of the sort. Why would he? Mehra scarcely believed it herself. Maybe there was another explanation for what happened. Maybe it was all a horrible mistake. Maybe the Greybeards would tell her as much.

"By Talos," said Kell when Rumarin had finished. "Everyone's heard about the dragons at Helgen and Whiterun, and we've had rumors of others. It sounds like the damned things are spreading like pregnant skeevers."

A tattooed sailor at the next table turned to them. "Aye, more dragons are coming, that's the word. The Dragonborn will have his work cut out for him."

"I hear the Dragonborn is a Bosmer lady or somesuch," muttered another man who was with him.

The big sailor glared at him. "That's a filthy lie. The Dragonborn is a Nord, a true son of Skyrim, and you'd best not forget it."

"If anyone's the Dragonborn, it's Ulfric Stormcloak," said a woman, her skin and clothes dark with the grime of mining work. "He has the Thu'um, and he's out to break the Empire's hold on us."

"That's right," said another miner. "And it were the first dragon attack that saved Jarl Ulfric's life in Helgen. That's the work of the Gods, no mistake."

Mehra sat quietly, absorbing it all. Never before had it occurred to her that Jarl Ulfric could be the Dragonborn. He was a Nord of Skyrim, a leader, and a war hero. Why wouldn't such a man be the Dragonborn? It made far more sense.

Rumarin brought Mehra back to the present moment when he waved a hand in front of her face. She stared at him in confusion.

"Oh good, you're back," said Rumarin. "Kell was just asking where we're headed. Whiterun is next on the itinerary, isn't it? I don't think we ever made it official."

"I... yes, Whiterun. Wait, does that mean you're coming?" Mehra asked hopefully.

"To the breadbasket of Skyrim? Of course. Going east means freezing my toes off in Winterhold or Windhelm. Going west means slogging through a bloody swamp town. Why do people insist on building settlements in the most inhospitable places? Do you suppose the founders were trying to avoid their in-laws?"

"Once we're in Whiterun-- what will you do then?"

"Well, who knows? But I hear Falkreath is nice this time of year."

Mehra said nothing. She knew she should be grateful that Rumarin was at least coming with her to Whiterun; she had nothing to offer him and he had already accompanied her further than she had any right to expect. She thought again of J'zargo, who might not come with her at all, and she began to feel very alone.

"Well now that you mention it, I--" Kell stopped and looked closely at Mehra. "You all right?"

"Yes, I... I suppose I'm just tired."

Kell made a sympathetic sound. "Hiking through those mountains between here and Winterhold would wear out anyone." She reached into a belt pouch and produced a brass key. "Here, you'll want this. It's the room closest to the bar, last door on the left."

"Does the inn have a place to bathe?" asked Mehra, all too conscious of the dirt and grime clinging to her.

"Sure does. Just ask the innkeeper, he'll get you set up."

"Thank you. Goodnight," said Mehra. Kell smiled and nodded. Rumarin appeared to be contemplating his mead and made no sign of noticing that Mehra was leaving.

After washing up and changing into clean clothes, Mehra was ready for a good night's sleep. She would have preferred retreating into a room of her own, to have a quiet place to put her thoughts in order, but at least she wouldn't be sleeping in a hole dug in the snow. After spending a long cold night with Rumarin in a cramped snow cave, bedding down on the floor of a shared room seemed almost a luxury.

When Mehra entered the room she was taken aback by how small it was. Though it contained only a narrow bed, a table and a chair, there was very little floor space. Two bedrolls would be close, practically touching. Mehra glanced at the bed. The woman who paid for the room would sleep there, and Mehra had no wish to share a bed with a stranger. With a sigh she laid out her bedroll, resigning herself to spending another night in uncomfortable proximity to Rumarin.

Sleep wouldn't come. Mehra watched the strand of light under the door, listened to the muffled talk outside. She couldn't stop thinking about J'zargo and the morning to come. What should she tell him? Suppose she forgot what she wanted to say? Suppose he still wasn't ready to talk to her?

The dragon in her rumbled, " _Kos mulhaan_."

"I don't know what that means," said Mehra. She felt the dragon give a heavy sigh.

Mehra soon gave up on sleep. She climbed to her feet and lit the room's lamp. From her bag she pulled out sheets of paper, pen, and ink. She sat at the table and began a letter to J'zargo.

Mehra had barely started when Rumarin came in and dropped his gear on the floor. He had evidently washed up, because he now wore his gray robes and his face was no longer streaked with red paint. Mehra thought how strange it was that Rumarin took the trouble to apply those red lines almost every day. She used to believe the war paint must have special meaning, but the longer she knew Rumarin, the more she suspected it was a kind of mask to hide behind.

"I thought you might be asleep by now," said Rumarin.

"I tried. I couldn't." Mehra set down her pen and rubbed her eyes.

Rumarin didn't answer immediately. He seemed disquieted as he glanced first at the bed, then at the empty space next to Mehra's bedroll. He sighed and began unwrapping his bedroll, laying it next to the first one.

"By the way, Kell told me she's bound for Whiterun too," said Rumarin after he finished smoothing out his sleeping space and sat down. "Apparently she has family down there and asked to travel with us. I told her I didn't think you'd object."

"Oh," said Mehra, surprised. "No, of course I don't. It was nice of her to let us stay in her room, and it'll be good to have more company on the road."

"Yes, she seems pleasant enough, doesn't she? I suppose it helps that she's not another insufferable elf with far too much to say."

"I still wish you wouldn't do that," said Mehra quietly.

"Do what? This?" Rumarin had started pulling off his boots. "I know it's proper and manly to die with your boots on, but you're not going to make me sleep with them, are you?"

"No. I think you know what I meant."

Rumarin examined the holes in his boots before setting them aside. "No, I'm blissfully ignorant. After all, I'm only half a halfwit."

Mehra shook her head, too weary to argue. She took up her pen again.

"Is that a letter to home?" asked Rumarin.

"For J'zargo."

"So you haven't given up on him."

"No."

"But if he's happy with the caravan, why not leave him to it?"

Mehra's fingers tightened around the pen. "He's not happy, Rumarin. How can he be?"

Rumarin shrugged. "For one thing he's with his own kind. And he grew up in a family of traders, so he should feel right at home. Well, as much at home as anyone born south of the Jerall mountains can be in Skyrim."

"But he never wanted to be a trader. He wanted to be a mage. He spent his whole life teaching himself everything he could about magic. He left his home and family, traveled hundreds of miles to Winterhold, all so he could make something of himself. And now..." Mehra felt a lump forming in her throat and stopped, certain her composure would crumble if she said another word. Why had J'zargo given up on himself?

Rumarin glanced away and shifted on the bedroll. With his war paint gone it was easier to read his face, and he looked apprehensive.

"That's why I need to finish this letter," said Mehra after composing herself.

"All right, I'll shut up now," said Rumarin, settling into his bedroll and turning over.

Mehra wrote slowly, choosing her words with care. Though she held onto hope that J'zargo would be ready to talk to her in the morning, she couldn't depend on it. This letter might be her last chance of reaching out to him, and she wanted to make every word count.

When she was done, Mehra carefully folded the letter and put it away. Leaving the lamp burning for Kell, Mehra started to get up.

Mehra thought Rumarin had fallen asleep, so she was startled when she heard him speak. "Where will you go after Whiterun?"

"I... I think I should go to the mountain," said Mehra, sitting back down in the chair.

"Is that what you want to do?"

Mehra hesitated. "Yes."

"Really?"

Mehra pictured the mountain, the tallest she had ever seen, its snow-covered peak so high it rose above the clouds and seemed to touch the sky. People far stronger and braver than she was often met their end on the slopes of Skyrim's mountains, yet she was expected to climb the tallest mountain of them all. She didn't know what frightened her more: Making the long and perilous journey, or facing the Greybeards who would tell her whether she was indeed the Dragonborn.

If Mehra had J'zargo at her side, she could almost see herself going to High Hrothgar. She supposed deep down she had hoped J'zargo would take time away from the College to make the journey with her, once she worked up the courage to tell him what she had to do. J'zargo had faced many dangers with her, even dragons, and he had never abandoned her to any of them. Until now.

At last Mehra admitted, "No. I'm afraid to climb it."

Rumarin sat up to face her, his expression serious. "Then maybe you shouldn't go."

"But..."

"You've heard me say it before. Real events have a way of getting exaggerated and twisted out of shape until it's all a ruse and no one knows the truth anymore."

Mehra said nothing, too tired to pin down exactly what Rumarin was trying to say. Sometimes she wished he would be more direct.

Rumarin continued, "The legend of the Dragonborn is hundreds of years old. Is there such a thing as a Dragonborn? Maybe there is, maybe there isn't, maybe the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Does anyone really know?"

"The Greybeards are supposed to know."

"They might. Or they might make their best guess based on some confounding ancient texts that no one understands anymore."

"But I need to understand what's happening, and the Greybeards might be the only ones who can tell me." Mehra grew dismayed at her own words. She felt that she was arguing not so much with Rumarin as she was with herself, the part of her that wanted a way out.

"Understand what? You're not a Nord, Skyrim isn't your country, and anyone who has you pegged as a dragon slayer can't be right in the head. Besides, we already know it doesn't take a Dragonborn to kill a dragon. The way I see it, you're off the hook. Let the Ulfric Stormcloaks of the world deal with the dragon crisis."

"Jarl Balgruuf told me to go. I can't just--" Mehra stopped, her mind doubling back to what Rumarin said about Ulfric Stormcloak. She remembered the talk in the common room about Jarl Ulfric. Was it possible he was the Dragonborn? Had there been some sort of mistake?

Rumarin laid back down and wrestled with a too-short blanket, trying in vain to make it cover all of him. "Maybe you should tell Jarl Balgruuf to go climb his own bloody mountain."

Mehra stared at him. "I couldn't do that. Would you tell a jarl a thing like that?"

Rumarin cleared his throat. "Perhaps not, but that's not the point. The point is-- oh never mind. My brain is done for the night."

Mehra felt disappointed for reasons she didn't understand. Part of her had hoped Rumarin would offer to go with her to High Hrothgar. She knew that was foolish, even childish. Why should Rumarin do anything of the sort? He owed her nothing. If anything, she felt herself indebted. Rumarin hadn't wanted to come to Dawnstar to find J'zargo. The whole thing must have been distasteful to him-- after all, J'zargo and Rumarin had never gotten along, and it was because of J'zargo that they had lost the White Phial. Mehra suspected Rumarin needed the reward money badly, though for what she didn't know.

When Rumarin appeared to be settled, Mehra got into her own bedroll and curled up. She listened to the sounds of the inn, the muffled voices and passing footsteps.

Sleep came in troubled, fitful snatches. Mehra would later have a vague memory of the door creaking open and a terrible shadow stealing into the room. Mehra gasped had bolted upright, but then the shadow was gone and there was only Kell standing over her. "It's only me, nothing to be afraid of," Kell had reassured her before climbing into bed.

Later Mehra dreamed of wandering through a mist, lost and alone, trying to find J'zargo. Sometimes she seemed to catch sight of him, but each time she found only a dead tree, an abandoned house, or a sign pointing to nowhere. Once she found Tirel waiting for her, who reached for her hand and urged her to follow him. I know the way, he said, I know where J'zargo is. Mehra stumbled after Tirel, but she couldn't keep up, and her hand slipped out of his and he was gone.

At last Mehra awoke to morning light shining faintly through a small window. She heard soft snoring and knew Rumarin was still asleep. Looking around, she saw that Kell hadn't stirred from bed either.

Quietly so as not to disturb her sleeping companions, Mehra pulled on her boots and cloak. With her letter to J'zargo in hand, she tiptoed out of the room and left the inn.

It was another gray morning, cold and overcast. The sun was barely up, but already the town of Dawnstar was coming to life. A man heaved crates onto a wagon, a woman leaned out of a window to empty a bucket of dirty washing water, and in the harbor a fisherman was making his boat ready to sail.

Mehra walked fast, all but running out of town, hoping she wasn't too late. Ahkari had said the caravan would be leaving this very morning.

To her relief the caravan had not yet moved on. But the Khajiit were already hard at work, breaking down their tents, putting out their campfire, loading crates and bags onto carts and mules. Mehra saw J'zargo a little apart from the others, putting saddlebags on one of the mules.

Gathering her courage, Mehra went to J'zargo. He flinched and turned his face away.

"I was hoping I could talk to you before you left," said Mehra. When he didn't answer she continued, "I'm going to Whiterun. And then I'm... I'm going to the mountain. To High Hrothgar."

J'zargo remained silent. His hands moved over the mule's burdens, checking straps and buckles, making adjustments. The mule calmly submitted to the attention.

Mehra put her hand out to the mule. The mule sniffed at her and twitched its big ears.

"I'm afraid to go alone," said Mehra, stroking the mule's neck. "I wish you'd come with me."

J'zargo sighed. Though he kept his eyes turned away, he spoke at last. "You do not need this one. This Khajiit is useless to you."

"No, you're not. In Helgen I was too scared to even think, but you came to me and got me away. You didn't even know me. You could have left me behind and saved yourself, but you didn't."

J'zargo's shoulders sagged. For a moment he looked as if he might reply, but instead he went around the mule to check the remaining saddlebags.

Mehra followed him, trying to hold in her desperation. "When the dragons attacked and when the undead things came for us, you faced them all. You never ran away." Mehra's voice broke. "Why are you running away now?"

At this J'zargo turned to her and held up his hand. In his palm Mehra saw a tiny struggling flame. The little flame flickered a moment, then died.

"This one is weak," said J'zargo, bowing his head. "The will to call up fire has left him."

For a moment Mehra was so stricken she couldn't speak. She knew what it was to lose magic to disease, but that J'zargo could simply lose his will to cast spells was almost unthinkable.

"Is that why you left the College?" asked Mehra.

"No. This one left because he does not deserve to be a mage." J'zargo's voice was choked. "This one is a fool who saw only what he wanted to see. This fool told you terrible things. Did many wrong things. Hurt you and others who did not deserve it."

"J'zargo--" Mehra reached for his hand, but J'zargo pulled away.

" _Dov, thjiziit derabi dov eshona_. You are better off without this one."

Mehra watched him walk away, feeling numb, not believing what just happened. J'zargo would never do this. The J'zargo she knew had too much spirit to give up on everything and turn away from her. Then she remembered how the little flame had died in his hand, and Ahkari's words came back to her: Some things cannot be mended.

She was still struggling to understand what just happened when Ahkari approached, her eyes full of pity.

"We leave soon," said Ahkari. "This one will watch over your friend."

Mehra tried to reply, but the words got stuck in her throat. Then she remembered her letter. She pulled it out and offered it to Ahkari. "Please, would you give this to him?"

Ahkari bowed her head as she accepted the letter. "It will be done."

Mehra stood off to the side, staying out of the way while the Khajiit traders finished their preparations. She watched J'zargo help them. Even with his low spirits he worked methodically, double-checking even the simplest details. It seemed to Mehra that J'zargo was anticipating and guarding against every possible disaster.

Soon the caravan was on its way to the next town. Most of the traders were enthusiastic, chattering happily to one another. J'zargo alone trailed behind them in silence, his head bowed. He never looked back.

Mehra watched the road long after they were gone, expecting at any moment to see J'zargo come running back, to tell her he had changed his mind. He never did.

The sun was well up, and Mehra remembered there was much to do. She needed to tell the jarl about the dragon in the mountains. She had to find Ramati's husband and let him know his family wanted him home. And it would be wise to buy supplies for the journey to Whiterun.

Instead she put her face in her hands and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ta'agra translations (from[The Ta'agra Project](http://www.taagra.com/)):**  
>  Kador mavos hadozay Khajiit: Why follow a useless Khajiit?  
> Khajiit raj'kono zatay Khajiit: Khajiit always help Khajiit  
> Thzi: True  
> Dov, thjiziit derabi dov eshona: No, this fool deserves no kindness
> 
> **Dovahzul translations (from[Thuum.org](https://www.thuum.org/)):**  
>  Kos mulhaan: Be still (closest thing I can find to "shut up" or "go to sleep")
> 
> The Leyawiin Ladies lyrics (Gary's contribution) were adapted from [Spanish Ladies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_2g_kNTBek).
> 
> J'zargo's trouble with magic is a tiny nod to Avatar: The Last Airbender, where mastering a powerful ability requires not only study and practice, but also the right mindset.


	4. Whiterun

Mehra and her companions had left Dawnstar far behind them, the deep snow and ice giving way to heath dotted with boulders, and then to pastures and farms. Though the air was still frigid and the ground dry and hard, the sun shone brighter and gave more warmth to this part of the country. The change would have lifted Mehra's spirits if not for the anxiety building in her, knowing that she must soon face Jarl Balgruuf.

It was Rumarin who first spotted Dragonsreach, the magnificent longhouse of Jarl Balgruuf. He pointed at the great house on its lofty hill and said, "Look at that. We're still miles away from Whiterun, but you can see Jarl Balgruuf's fancy house already. I'll wager you could fit five or six Winterholds in there."

"Dragonsreach is the pride of Skyrim," said Kell. "It even held a dragon once."

"It did?" asked Mehra. During the journey Mehra had said little, retreating into her own troubled thoughts about J'zargo and her coming audience with the jarl of Whiterun, but talk of dragons sometimes drew her out.

"Good old Numinex," said Kell cheerfully. "Mean as a bear with a burr up its butt, that one. He burned dozens, maybe hundreds of villages and cities to the ground. King Olaf got Numinex in the end, though. Caught him and imprisoned him somewhere in Dragonsreach until he gave up the ghost."

Somewhere in her mind, Mehra heard the dragon soul mutter, _Tinvaak do Numinex? Wuth mey._

"But why didn't King Olaf kill Numinex instead?" asked Mehra. "It seems cruel to keep a dragon trapped in a prison for the rest of his life."

"I imagine One-Eyed Olaf wanted the prestige of having his own pet dragon so he could make all the other jarls jealous," said Rumarin.

"Olaf One-Eye," Kell corrected him, sounding a little annoyed.

Mehra and Rumarin had been with Kell for only a few days, but from the start Kell talked and bantered as if she had known them for years. Kell had much to say about Skyrim's towns, jarls, legends, food, and customs, but curiously Kell shared little about her own life. Mehra only knew that Kell was visiting family in Whiterun. But Rumarin could be like that too, saying much while revealing little about himself. Mehra had said nothing about herself during the journey.

They walked in silence for a while. At different times they passed a farmer leading a cow by a rope, pilgrims on their way to a shrine, and a merchant driving a wagon full of crates. Once they even saw a Khajiit caravan. Mehra felt her hopes revive as she studied the face of each Khajiit trader, but she recognized none of them and her heart sank.

Kell gave a happy cry and pointed south at a stone structure coming into view, a watchtower flying the yellow flag of Whiterun. "There it is," said Kell. "That's where it all began."

"Where what began? You mean life, the world and everything?" asked Rumarin, shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun.

Mehra kept her eyes on the ground. She knew the watchtower only too well. She was doing her best not to remember what happened the first time she and J'zargo had passed the tower on their way to Winterhold.

Kell gave a laugh that sounded forced. "That's very funny, but you must know I'm talking about the Dragonborn. That's where she saved Whiterun by killing a dragon."

"The guards of Whiterun killed the dragon," said Mehra before she could stop herself.

"Pshaw, only a Dragonborn can really kill a dragon," said Kell. "That's why we need the Dragonborn now."

"No, the guards brought down the dragon," said Mehra, dismayed at herself for arguing. She should have said nothing. Yet it troubled her that everyone who sang the Dragonborn's praises never said a word about the men and women who did the fighting. Their bravery was always swept aside, forgotten.

"Well, how do you know? Were you there?" asked Kell.

Mehra avoided the tall blonde's gaze.

"I wasn't, but I did see a dragon once," said Rumarin. "I expect even a Dragonborn would need help bringing down a beast that's roughly the size of a meadery. Speaking of which, is the Honningbrew Meadery much further?"

"Oh come now," said Kell with an incredulous laugh. "History was made right here on the very dirt we're standing on, and you'd rather tour a meadery?"

"Of course. Historical dirt is all fine and good, but unlike mead I can't drink dirt. Have you ever tried dirt? It tastes like dirt," said Rumarin, making a face.

Kell gave Rumarin an odd look and fell silent. Sometimes Mehra tired of Rumarin's more absurd remarks, but just then she was grateful that he had put an end to the conversation.

As they neared the watchtower Mehra's heart beat faster. She told herself there was nothing to fear, that there would be no dragons this time, but still she kept turning her eyes to the sky.

Then Mehra heard a terrible shout that shattered her senses. Shaking, Mehra stumbled off the road and sank onto a low flat stone. The dragon soul in her mind was raging, bellowing, cursing, pouring out his fury. He remembers, Mehra realized. He remembers dying here. 

Mehra's mind called up a memory of the dragon's final moments. In the shadow of the watchtower, Mehra cowered beside J'zargo and watched the desperate battle between the Whiterun guards and their foe. Over and over J'zargo cast fireballs at the dragon when it swooped low. Mehra could not recall if J'zargo ever struck the dragon, but he never cowered or ceased trying. Mehra was certain she and J'zargo were about to die, but it was a comfort to have him with her. At least she wouldn't face the end alone.

The guards loosed wave after wave of arrows until at last the terrible beast dropped from the sky. The dragon lay thrashing on the ground, his wings torn and bloody, his body pierced by countless arrows. Strewn about him were the broken bodies of dead warriors, men and women who gave their lives to save Whiterun from this winged horror.

The remaining fighters rushed the dying dragon. As their weapons flashed at him he gave an anguished cry: _Dovahkiin! Niid!_

The memory fell away. Mehra gradually became aware of her companions standing over her, looking down at her with concern.

"Hey," said Kell. "You all right? You're not sick, are you?"

"I'll be fine," said Mehra, feeling faint.

"You sure?" asked Kell. "You turned white as a ghost. You feel like throwing up?"

At this, Rumarin moved so that he was no longer standing directly in front of Mehra.

"Just a headache," said Mehra. "I'll be fine in a moment."

"I wanted a rest anyway," said Rumarin, sitting on the stone next to Mehra. Lately Rumarin often hovered close when Mehra was troubled or distressed. It was a comfort in one way. In another way it made Mehra feel worse. She had never brought herself to ask Rumarin to go with her to the mountain, and he had never offered. J'zargo was lost to her, and now she expected to lose Rumarin once they reached Whiterun.

Mehra flinched as the dragon gave another shout, though not so loud this time. Then he made strange, low, strangled sounds Mehra had never heard before-- sounds of defeat and grief. If Mehra were alone she would have tried speaking to the dragon, to calm him somehow. Instead she reached out to him with her thoughts: It's all right, it's over now, it's all past. She didn't know if the dragon heard her, but he grew silent.

Rumarin looked over his boots. He had the boots repaired before leaving Dawnstar, but already they were about to come apart again.

"Are those old boots holding up?" Kell asked Rumarin.

Rumarin shook his head. "They like growing new holes and eating my money. My robes seem to be developing the same perverse habits," he added, running a finger along a frayed cuff. 

"Sounds like you should buy new ones," said Kell.

"Boots cost money, which I'm a little short on at the moment."

Kell studied the land around them. "I wonder if there are any dragon bones still lying around. They say after the Dragonborn cut off his ugly head, she used the Thu'um to burn his flesh off. Nothing left but a smoking pile of bones."

Mehra sucked in a quick breath. The dragon's death throes had been terrible to watch, but what happened after was far worse. "Look," J'zargo had cried, "the dragon is burning!" The guards backed away, murmuring in fear and wonder as flames suddenly engulfed the body. To Mehra's horror, the flames turned into strands of light that rushed straight for her, surrounding her, blinding her, flying straight into her body-- and she was powerless to stop it.

Rumarin cast an uneasy glance at Mehra. "I'm afraid I have a rather delicate stomach," he told Kell. "If we must talk about bones and burning flesh, could we at least wait until after dinner?"

"Oh all right," said Kell with a shrug. "Dinner at the Bannered Mare is sounding real good, and I'm hungry enough to eat a troll."

"I don't know about a troll, but I'm certainly in the mood for some red meat. And a flagon of something so strong it makes the goats look like wenches." Rumarin glanced at Mehra again and quickly added, "But then my feet are sore and could easily overrule my stomach, so there's that."

Mehra stared into the distance at Dragonsreach. Soon she would have to tell Jarl Balgruuf that she hadn't done as he asked. She never climbed the mountain to speak with the Greybeards and learn of her destiny. What would he say?

Kell paced about with an air of impatience, while Rumarin passed the time by tying a piece of grass into knots. Deciding she had kept her companions waiting long enough, Mehra got to her feet and announced that she was ready to go on.

They passed fields grazed by shaggy cows, farmlands harvested bare for the season, and fenced properties filled with horses, goats and chickens. The road followed the bank of the White River. Mehra saw a man fishing at the river's edge and children throwing stones into the rushing water.

The sun was low when they finally approached the gates of Whiterun, two guards flanking the entrance. The older guard looked half asleep, but the younger one was alert and watchful. As Mehra drew near, the young guard's eyes widened.

"Thane Mehra," cried the young man. "Dragonborn, you've come back!"

The older guard started. He adjusted his uniform and said, "Welcome back, Thane Mehra."

"Thank you," said Mehra, flushed with embarrassment.

Kell stared open-mouthed at the guards. When she recovered herself she gave a short laugh. "Wait, what's going on?" No one answered her.

The young guard excitedly asked Mehra, "Did you go to High Hrothgar? Did you speak with the Greybeards? What were they like?"

Mehra didn't know how to begin to answer the barrage of questions. "I..."

"Don't pester the Thane," said the older guard with a scowl. "She didn't return to answer your idle questions."

"Right, of course, very sorry," mumbled the young guard, shame-faced.

Kell whispered to Rumarin, "Is this a joke?"

"It would be funnier if it was," said Rumarin, his expression unreadable.

"Jarl Balgruuf will be happy to know you've returned to us safe and sound," the older guard told Mehra. "Would you and your companions like an escort to Dragonsreach?"

"No. I mean, no thank you, I know the way," said Mehra, ducking her head as she hurried past the guards and into the city.

The day was nearly over, and only a few people wandered the cobblestone streets of Whiterun. A weaponsmith and her apprentice were closing shop for the day. A woman stood in the doorway of her house and called to her children, who were reluctant to give up their game of tag.

"They do like their dragons here, don't they," Rumarin observed, peering up at the rooftops. Many of the quaint buildings were adorned with carvings of dragon heads.

"All this time," said Kell, her face full of distress as she came up beside Mehra. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?"

Mehra looked up at Kell. "Would you have believed it?"

Kell stammered but gave no answer.

To Mehra's surprise Kell continued following her and Rumarin. She thought the woman would go her own way once they reached Whiterun. But then Mehra remembered that Kell wanted to stop by the inn. Perhaps she meant to enjoy one more meal with them before taking her leave.

At first Mehra was relieved when they reached the entrance of Whiterun's inn, the Bannered Mare. But her feelings changed as soon as Rumarin opened the door. The sight of the people crowded inside and the sound of a bard singing _The Dragonborn Comes_ made Mehra shrink away.

"You're not coming?" asked Rumarin, still holding the door open. Kell stood off to the side, watching the streets with an anxious look.

Mehra shook her head. "I think I should go see Jarl Balgruuf."

"Now? Can't the old fellow wait? I wouldn't want to talk to a jarl on an empty stomach, especially if it was the jarl who told me to go mountain climbing."

Mehra pulled in a deep breath. She had no wish to debate the issue with Rumarin. "Is it all right if I meet you here afterward?"

"You're sure you don't want me along?" asked Rumarin. Even as he said it he threw a regretful look at the inn.

Mehra hesitated. While she feared going to Dragonsreach alone, she was more afraid of what Rumarin might say in Jarl Balgruuf's presence. Ever since Dawnstar Rumarin never failed to make some scornful remark whenever Jarl Balgruuf or Dragonsreach was mentioned. Besides, Mehra knew Rumarin would rather eat and drink his fill at the inn.

"Thank you, but I think I should go see him alone," said Mehra.

"All right then," said Rumarin, looking relieved.

Slowly Mehra began walking in the direction of Dragonsreach. She passed several market stalls, but most were empty. The remaining merchants were packing away their meats, vegetables, and other goods for the day.

Whiterun was built on a hill, with Dragonsreach at the top. The higher one went, the more affluent the city became. Mehra ascended the stairs to the Wind District, a plaza that lay just below Dragonsreach. At the plaza's center was a tree. It must have been a fine tree once, but now its branches were bare and its exposed roots showed signs of decay.

Mehra stared up at the remaining stairs to Dragonsreach, her heart beating fast. She wasn't ready to go face Jarl Balgruuf. Not quite yet. Instead she sat on a bench under the tree to think and gather her courage.

The plaza would have been peaceful if not for the robed priest who stood before the statue of Talos, preaching to a small gathering of people. The priest gestured grandly as he praised the glory of mighty Talos. It was all mystifying to Mehra. Few people openly worshiped Talos in Kvatch where she grew up, and there were certainly no statues or city shrines dedicated to the god. Thalmor Justiciars had a stronger presence in Cyrodiil, and they drove Talos worship underground.

The priest shouted, "The Dragon's children have come to cleanse the world in fire and righteousness! There are those who would silence the Dragon's truth, but not I. Talos has returned, and Helgen has been purged in his light. Will Whiterun be next?"

Mehra recoiled at his words. In her mind she saw Helgen ablaze. She remembered scorching heat, screams of panic, people dying. How could this priest suggest that Helgen, let alone the whole world, deserved such a fate? As if sensing her mood, the dragon soul in her awoke with a snarl.

"Behold the Gildergreen," cried the priest, pointing to the dying tree. "For centuries the sacred tree stood as a testament of our faith. Now you see it dying. Why does it die? Because Whiterun turned its back on Talos by refusing to cut ties with the Empire. The Empire of Cyrodiil!" He spat out the word like it tasted bad. "What is Cyrodiil? A harlot that beds with the Thalmor, drinking the blood of the faithful!"

The priest's words stirred the people gathered around him. Several nodded and murmured their agreement. "Blight take the Empire!" cried one.

Mehra began to feel shaken. She had known there was much hate in Skyrim for Cyrodiil and the Empire-- after all, the Empire had bound itself and all its provinces to a treaty that outlawed Talos worship. Entering such terms with the Thalmor was the price of ending a long and bloody war. Still it disturbed Mehra to see the hate in the priest's face as he spoke of her homeland.

The priest went on, "Talos is the true god of man, ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit. The very idea is inconceivable to the elves. Sharing the heavens with us? With man? They can barely tolerate our presence on earth! Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? Do the elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives?"

Mehra wanted away from the priest and his angry speeches. Though she was still afraid to see the jarl, she arose and fled up the steps. She got no further than the first landing when a guard addressed her. 

"Greetings to you, Thane Mehra," said the guard, as if he had been expecting her. "Jarl Balgruuf will be pleased to see you. Will you permit me to escort you to him?"

Mehra was taken aback. She was sure she never saw the man before, but he recognized her on sight. Perhaps the guards were instructed to watch for her. "Yes, thank you," she said.

After following the guard up several flights of stairs, Mehra paused to catch her breath and look about. In the fading light of the day she could see the city spread out below. Beyond the city, mountains towered. But all were dwarfed by _the_ mountain, the one Mehra must climb, its peak disappearing in the clouds. Gazing up at the mountain, Mehra felt small and insignificant.

Mehra felt even smaller when she stood in the shadow of Dragonsreach, a wooden building far too tall and grand to be a mere longhouse. It was a palace. Mehra didn't know if Kell's story about Numinex was true, but Dragonsreach certainly looked big enough to hold a dragon.

Mehra had feared that she would be forced to speak to Jarl Balgruuf in the great hall, where he usually received visitors. There would be no privacy there. Servants, attendants, and nobles alike would be privy to Mehra's conversation with the jarl.

To Mehra's relief, the guard led her through the hall and past the empty throne. Courtiers and citizens sat at heavy tables while servants attended with food and drink, but none paid Mehra or her escort any heed. Mehra paused to glance at the dragon skull mounted on the wall, its jaws flung open as if in a shout. Was this the skull of Numinex? Deep within her, the dragon soul made a low menacing sound.

The guard led Mehra into a large office or war room. After assuring her that Jarl Balgruuf would be along shortly, the guard left. Mehra looked around. On the table was a map of Skyrim, and near the table were shelves full of books on history, strategy, and warfare. But Mehra also spotted volumes of The Wolf Queen and The Real Barenziah.

Mehra studied the map. It was dotted with markers indicating whether a territory was claimed by the Stormcloaks or the Imperial Legion. Skyrim was divided equally, with the west controlled by the Empire and the east held by Ulfric Stormcloak. Whiterun alone bore no marker; Jarl Balgruuf had sworn his allegiance to no one.

Though Mehra knew to expect Jarl Balgruuf at any moment, she was still startled when the man himself arrived.

"Welcome back, Thane Mehra," said Jarl Balgruuf in a friendly tone that surprised Mehra. She expected he would be displeased with her for having left Whiterun so abruptly. "You are well, I trust?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," said Mehra, not knowing what else to say. Looking at the jarl's crown and fine tunic accented in gold, she grew uncomfortably aware of her own appearance. Her time on the road had left her dusty and disheveled.

"And your friend J'zargo, is he well? Has he already gone to study at Winterhold?"

"He..." Mehra struggled to answer. It pained her to dwell on J'zargo for long, let alone talk about him, but she couldn't think of a way to deflect the question. Her answer came out in a rush. "J'zargo started to study at the College, but now he's joined a trading caravan, and I-- I..."

"Yes?"

Mehra willed herself to calm down. It wouldn't do to break down before the jarl. "I'm sorry," she said, letting her gaze drop in shame. "But I didn't go to High Hrothgar like you asked. I know I should have, but I was afraid to go, and I... I had something I wanted to do in Winterhold."

"I see," said Jarl Balgruuf. "Please have a seat. I would hear of your visit to Winterhold."

Mehra sank into a chair, greatly relieved that the jarl wasn't angry. She began telling him of her and J'zargo's journey to Winterhold, and how along the way they stopped in Windhelm. She described their meeting with Rumarin and how they helped him find the White Phial. And she told him of her reasons for going to Winterhold, her need to restore her magic.

"I just didn't see how I could be of any use without my magic. My father taught me a little of the sword, but I never mastered it. I'm not a warrior. And J'zargo needed to be at Winterhold in time for his classes, and I was afraid to go up the mountain alone and hear the Greybeards tell me about--" Mehra stopped and hesitated, aware that she was rambling. Surely the jarl was running out of patience.

But Jarl Balgruuf only said, "Go on."

"Jarl Balgruuf, I'm sorry, but-- could it be the Greybeards were calling to someone else?" After a pause Mehra added, "Someone like Jarl Ulfric?"

"And why should Ulfric Stormcloak be the Dragonborn?"

"It's just... I've heard people talking about him. They say he has the Thu'um. Some of them think he must be the Dragonborn. And he was there in Helgen when the first dragon came. And he's a warrior and a Nord and everything people expect the Dragonborn to be. Everything I'm not."

"He's the obvious choice," said the jarl. "Half of Skyrim is convinced he's our savior. But I trust the Gods to choose more wisely than men."

"But it makes more sense if he's the Dragonborn. I can't even use magic to help anyone. Not anymore."

"You have the Thu'um, and you absorbed the soul of a dragon. Many saw what happened."

"But other people have the Thu'um. Maybe others can absorb dragon souls too?"

"Only the Greybeards can say," said Jarl Balgruuf with finality. "That's why you must speak with them."

It was the answer Mehra expected, but still her spirits sank. She would have to climb the mountain after all, and alone. J'zargo had left her and Mehra no longer had any hope that Rumarin would go with her.

As if seeing what was in her mind, the jarl said, "I don't expect you to make the journey unprepared. I'll see to it that you have a housecarl."

"I'm sorry, but-- what's a housecarl?" asked Mehra, embarrassed by her own ignorance.

Jarl Balgruuf explained, "A housecarl is someone sworn to the service of a jarl or a thane. You might say a bodyguard."

Mehra was speechless. The jarl was giving her a bodyguard?

"You'll also need supplies. As a thane of Whiterun you're entitled to a stipend, which my steward will see to."

Mehra was in such shock that she struggled to find her voice again. She had expected angry words from the jarl for failing in her task, but instead he was giving her a housecarl and money for the journey she had long feared.

"Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf," she said. "Thank you, I can't tell you how grateful I am. And I'm sorry I--"

"There's no need to apologize. It is I who failed you."

"I don't understand."

"I was a soldier in the Legion once. Good commanders take the time to understand their people, to train and prepare them for battle. You don't send raw recruits on missions they're not ready for. If I had stopped consider your situation and not let myself be carried away by the signs of prophecy, I would have recognized that you needed more support. I never should have expected you to go to High Hrothgar alone."

Hearing this, Mehra felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. Before she could answer Jarl Balgruuf stood and said, "Now to begin setting things right. Wait here. I'll be back presently."

The jarl was a long while coming back. Mehra pulled a book from the shelf, a volume on the history of the Empire, but she couldn't focus on it for long. She began to wonder what was keeping Jarl Balgruuf. Then she began to worry. Had he forgotten about her? Surely not. Was he having trouble finding someone willing to be her housecarl? That was more likely. After reading the same sentence at least a dozen times, Mehra gave up and put the book away.

At last Jarl Balgruuf returned. With him was a dark-haired woman who moved as if the heavy armor she wore were almost no burden at all.

Jarl Balgruuf introduced the woman as Lydia. "She's one of the finest warriors of Whiterun, and she has served this city well for many years. She has agreed to be your housecarl."

"I'm honored to serve you, my Thane," said Lydia, her voice low and formal.

"Thank you. I'm grateful you'll be my housecarl," said Mehra, feeling awkward. On the one hand she was glad that Lydia was going with her to High Hrothgar. The woman looked strong and capable. On the other hand, Mehra was intimidated by Lydia's formal manner and stern expression.

"I'm needed elsewhere, so I'll leave you both to get acquainted," said Jarl Balgruuf. "Ah, and Thane Mehra, be sure to speak with my steward, Proventus Avenicci. He'll see to your stipend."

"I will," said Mehra. She started to thank the jarl, but he was soon gone. She looked at Lydia, trying to think of something to say to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Shall we go see Avenicci, my Thane?" asked Lydia.

"Please, you can just call me Mehra."

"Very well, Thane Mehra. Shall we go speak with Avenicci? The sooner we do, the sooner we can buy supplies and make ready."

"I suppose," said Mehra, finding it hard to meet Lydia's eye for long. She felt that Lydia had taken her measure and found her wanting.

They were about to go see the steward when a young servant woman came in.

"If you please, Thane," said the servant, dipping in a quick curtsy. "Someone has come to see you, an Altmer by name of Rumarin."

"Rumarin?" said Mehra, surprised that Rumarin should come looking for her. She thought he would spend the rest of the evening at the Bannered Mare.

"Shall I bring him or send him away?" asked the servant.

"No-- I mean yes, please let him come," said Mehra. The servant hurried away.

"Who's Rumarin?" asked Lydia.

"He's a friend who traveled with me from Dawnstar. All the way from Windhelm, really. That's where J-- where I first met him."

Rumarin strode in. Before Mehra could greet him he said, "I confess I'm a little disappointed. I thought a place with a name like Dragonsreach would incorporate more dragons in the decor. So far I've only seen one dragon skull. Which is more dragon skulls than I have, but still."

"I thought you'd be at the inn," said Mehra. "Is everything all right?"

"I was bored." Though Rumarin smiled and shrugged, Mehra felt something was amiss. Rumarin seemed nervous about something.

"Is Kell still at the Bannered Mare?" asked Mehra.

"No, she ran off to see a friend of hers. Then the bard started singing every song in his repertoire. All three of them. Repeatedly. I decided I might as well come here." Rumarin paused and looked curiously at Lydia.

Mehra remembered that introductions were in order. "Lydia, this is Rumarin. Rumarin, this is Lydia. My housecarl," she added with hesitation.

Lydia greeted him with a nod, her expression like stone.

Rumarin looked surprised. "Wait, housecarl? Jarl Balgruuf assigned you a housecarl?"

"Yes, she's coming with me to High Hrothgar."

"Not merely to High Hrothgar, Thane Mehra. I'm sworn to protect you wherever you may go," said Lydia. Though she addressed Mehra, Lydia kept stern eyes on Rumarin as if to give him warning.

"Ah. Well that's splendid," said Rumarin, though he sounded downcast. "I suppose that means you won't be needing a spare elf for the journey then, will you?"

At first Mehra didn't know what to say. It never occurred to her that Rumarin would want to travel with her to High Hrothgar, not after everything he said in Dawnstar. If anything he had tried to dissuade her from going. Was Rumarin actually disappointed?

"I'm grateful that Lydia is coming with me," said Mehra. "But I'd be glad if you came too."

"Really?" said Rumarin, brightening. "I wouldn't be a third wheel?"

"Rumarin, I would be delighted and very grateful if you'd come with me. I mean, if you want to.

Lydia spoke up. "The journey will be long, and we may meet with danger. Do you have weapons?"

"Oh, I conjure all my weapons, it's much handier that way," said Rumarin. "Although I do keep a dagger up my sleeve for emergencies and party tricks."

"Armor, then?"

"I do like the idea of protecting my insides from swords and other sharp pointy objects. But I also like to travel light. Bound armor would be the perfect compromise. Unfortunately I'm not familiar with bound armor spells, and I've yet to find a book on the subject in my travels."

Lydia turned her critical gaze to his boots. "Have you other shoes that will hold up to the journey?"

Rumarin looked with a sigh at his patched boots. "Believe it or not, I just had these repaired in Dawnstar. Now the repairs need repairs. Do you know a good cobbler whose fees aren't terribly exorbitant?"

Lydia's mouth compressed into a thin line. "Thane Mehra, the way to High Hrothgar is neither short nor easy. We shouldn't take anyone who isn't prepared for the journey."

Rumarin plucked a map marker from the table and fiddled with it. "Really, I hate to think I'm about to be disqualified over a pair of old boots. I may be somewhat lacking in the wardrobe department, but I'm not without my merits."

"Such as?" asked Lydia. She held out her hand for the marker and placed it back on the table.

"I've lived on the road for the better part of my life, and I know a trick or two for surviving in the dead of winter, which Mehra can attest to. I also happen to be a decent hand with a sword. I've even been known to skewer the occasional bandit."

Mehra added, "We survived a snow storm at night because Rumarin knew how to dig a shelter. And he killed several skeletons and draugr that attacked when we were in a crypt."

"That's something that's always bothered me about the undead," said Rumarin. "What's the proper way to say you killed a thing that was already dead in the first place?"

Lydia's expression darkened. "You were in a crypt?"

"Yes," said Mehra, growing uneasy under Lydia's gaze. She remembered now that the Nords of Skyrim held a deeper reverence for their ancient dead than did the people of Cyrodiil.

"To what purpose?"

"To make a long and unpleasant story short, we were hired to retrieve a valuable artifact," said Rumarin. "Ancient crypts are disagreeable places, but venturing into them can be rewarding. Provided you know how to stay alive."

Lydia's eyes narrowed. "So you took the Thane of Whiterun into a dangerous crypt to help you rob the dead."

"In the first place, I didn't know Mehra was a thane of anything at the time. In the second place, I didn't want--" Rumarin glanced at Mehra. "Well, that's another long story. In the third place, it's not as if the dead can spend their riches. They're far too busy being dead. Or undead, as is often the case."

Lydia gave Rumarin such a withering look that Rumarin drew back slightly and avoided her eye.

Mehra felt the tension mounting and feared a bad argument or worse. Thinking fast she blurted out, "Lydia, how much do you think my stipend will be?"

There was a long pause before Lydia said, "I don't know. We have to speak with Avenicci first."

"Really, you mean to say you'll get paid for thaning?" asked Rumarin, brightening. "Though I suppose 'thaning' isn't a real word, but it ought to be."

Mehra glanced at Lydia's darkening expression and winced inside. It was obvious Lydia had taken a great dislike to Rumarin, and he was not helping matters with such remarks.

"I don't know how much my stipend will be," said Mehra, hoping she could restore peace. "I mean, not yet. But whatever it is, I'd be glad to share it with you. Maybe there'll be enough for some of the things you need."

"Thane Mehra, I would speak with you for a moment. In private," said Lydia, her stern tone inviting no argument.

Mehra felt her face flush as she glanced between Rumarin and Lydia. She didn't want to be rude to Rumarin, but she didn't want to refuse Lydia either.

Rumarin started to protest. "If it concerns me, shouldn't I be part of the--"

"You wait here," said Lydia. Rumarin opened his mouth as if to argue, but a sharp look from Lydia silenced him.

Mehra looked at Rumarin apologetically. "I'll be back."

Rumarin gave a forced smile and settled into one of the chairs. "I'll be here. Assuming none of the servants throw me out, that is."

Mehra followed Lydia through a door and down some stairs into a narrow and dimly lit passage. It wasn't nearly so grand as the rest of Dragonsreach, and Mehra guessed it led to storage or the servant quarters.

Lydia turned to her and asked, "Thane Mehra, how long have you known this individual?"

Mehra tried to recall the number days that passed since she was last in Windhelm. "A few weeks, I think?"

"And you trust him?"

"Yes."

"With your life?"

"I've already trusted Rumarin with my life. We fought together. And I would have died in a snow storm if Rumarin had let me go to Dawnstar by myself to--" Mehra broke off. Explaining why she went to Dawnstar would mean telling Lydia the whole story about J'zargo, and Mehra wasn't ready for that talk.

"You have no misgivings about him? None?"

Mehra didn't answer right away. She was thinking about the healing potions Rumarin stole in Winterhold. In a way it was difficult to argue with Rumarin's rationale. He was right, the College _did_ steal the White Phial from them. Or at least Sergius did, which was wrong and unjust. But the theft of the potions still troubled Mehra. After all, the College alchemist had done them no harm.

"Rumarin isn't perfect, but he means well," said Mehra. "He helped me when he didn't have to. He knew I had nothing to give him, and lately he's lost a great deal. I'd like to pay him back in some way if I can."

"Perhaps that's why he came here looking for you."

"Sorry?"

"Thane Mehra, he knew you were important to Whiterun. Consider why he might have followed you."

Mehra immediately saw what Lydia was implying and grew agitated. In truth it puzzled Mehra that Rumarin had suddenly come looking for her in Dragonsreach and volunteered to accompany her to High Hrothgar. He had never shown any interest in going before. But then he had asked for nothing in return, and it had been Mehra's idea to share her stipend with him.

"You don't know him," said Mehra. "Rumarin didn't start treating me differently when he found out what I am. He's one of the only people I know who doesn't make anything of me being a thane or... or whatever else I might be."

Lydia didn't seem satisfied with this answer. She looked away, frowning. But at last she said, "Very well. Let's see what we can arrange with Avenicci."

"Thank you," said Mehra, feeling almost happy. Losing J'zargo still weighed heavy on her, and she still dreaded the task before her, but at least she wouldn't be climbing the great mountain and facing the Greybeards alone. She would have Lydia and Rumarin with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dovahzul translations (from[Thuum.org](https://www.thuum.org/)):**  
>  _Tinvaak do Numinex? Wuth mey:_ Speaking of Numinex? Old fool.
> 
> Mehra and J'zargo encountered the dragon at the Whitewatch Tower rather than the Western Watchtower. They were just on their way to Winterhold and weren't planning on meeting yet another dragon.


	5. The Stables

"Oriana, do we have to talk in here? With the horses?" Kell threw an unhappy look at one of the beasts, a black mare with eyes too bright, too watchful. Kell had never learned to trust horses. Too often they spooked, bucked, or bolted when you least expected it.

"The horses don't care," said Oriana, stroking the mare's forehead. Even in plain work clothes and muddy boots, Oriana was a striking Imperial woman who seemed taller than she was, her hair as sleek and dark as the black horse. "The Bannered Mare is out of the question, and we'd have no privacy at the Drunken Huntsman."

Kell sighed, knowing that Oriana was right. She dropped her bag on the ground and settled on a low stool. "Could I have some money?"

Oriana gave her a hard look. "I gave you plenty before you went to Dawnstar."

"Dawnstar was your idea," Kell reminded her. "And I spent most of what you gave me at the inn. I had to sleep somewhere and I couldn't find anyone to give me odd jobs to do." Kell grew annoyed thinking back on the tiresome days she spent at Dawnstar, one of the coldest an dullest places in Skyrim. She had lingered at the inn, kept her eyes and ears open, and waited for news about their mark. She had been ready to give up when suddenly the very Altmer they had been hunting strode into the inn and went right up to Kell.

"All right, I can give you more later," said Oriana. She picked up a grooming brush. "Lillith lets me sleep in a spare room for free, so I've saved most of what I have."

"You've been working the stables for her this whole time?"

"That's right," said Oriana, going to a colt with a tangled mane and dusty pelt. The horse twitched his ears and snorted, but he let her approach. Kell glared at the colt. That same rascal had tried to bite her when she passed him, but he offered no resistance to Oriana when she touched him.

"Didn't Lillith already have other stablehands?" asked Kell, moving her stool back as Oriana guided the horse out of his stall.

"Yes, two. But only one of them does any work." Oriana began brushing the horse, working out the grit and dust from his coat. The horse seemed perfectly calm, but Kell could feel his insolent eyes on her. Kell was sure the stupid beast would offer to bite her again if given the chance.

"Tell me more about our quarry," said Oriana. "You say he showed up one night at the Dawnstar inn?"

"He sure did. I was ready to give up and come back to Whiterun when all of a sudden I looked up and there he was. I knew it was him because of the red lines on his face."

Oriana rolled her eyes. "He's a fool, but that's in our favor. The war paint makes him easy to pick out." She ran her fingers through the horse's mane, working out the worst of the tangles. "What did you do when you saw him?"

"I was in the middle of trying to think up an excuse to go talk to him when he comes right up to me and says he needs a favor. All the rooms are taken and would I please share my room with him? He even offered to pay me if I let him sleep on the floor. Can you believe it?"

"Sometimes you get lucky. It's best to just run with it when that happens. You did good."

Kell felt a little burst of pride. She was very new to this line of work and eager to prove herself to Oriana, who already had experience collecting bounties in Cyrodiil. Then Kell remembered the unsettling things she had learned earlier that day, and her anxiety came back. Making a move against Rumarin now would be dangerous. But how to break the news to Oriana?

"Did you let him split the cost of the room with you?" asked Oriana.

"I told him he didn't owe me anything so long as he told good stories and didn't snore. He does snore, by the way."

Oriana gave her a disapproving look. "That was a mistake, Kell."

"How's that now?" asked Kell, stung.

"I'd be suspicious if I were him. A stranger letting me sleep in her room for free? A room she's already paying for? I'd smell a trap."

Kell folded her arms. "Well he didn't and it worked out fine."

Oriana said nothing. She turned her attention to picking up the colt's hooves one by one, scraping out dirt and debris.

Kell shifted uneasily on the stool. "At least it worked out fine until we got to Whiterun."

Oriana grew still. "What do you mean?"

"Is Jaree-Ra still in Whiterun?"

"No. He lost patience and went looking for a different pigeon. Why?"

"Well... Rumarin knows Jaree-Ra was looking for him."

"How did he find out?" Though Oriana's voice was low and even, something in her dark eyes made Kell flinch. The horse must have sensed the change, because he snorted and laid back his ears. Oriana let go of his hoof and straightened.

"It wasn't me, I didn't tip him off," said Kell in rush. "I sat with him for a spell at the Bannered Mare, just long enough to make sure he got a room for the night. Before I left, a couple of guys noticed his war paint and asked if he was looking for an Argonian friend. They told him that an Argonian had been asking questions about an Altmer with red marks on his face."

"And now his guard is up." Oriana picked up the grooming brush again. She looked like she might throw it. "Jaree-Ra was stupid. He doesn't know how to keep a low profile. He made the same mistake in Windhelm." After a pause she took a deep breath and put the brush away. "No matter. The Altmer can't keep his guard up all the time."

Kell tugged nervously at the end of her braid. "There's, uh, one more thing."

Oriana's face darkened. "What?"

"He's been traveling with a young woman from Cyrodiil. Her name's Mehra-- real mousy little Breton. I didn't give her much thought at first. But when we got to the gates of Whiterun, the guards recognized her." Kell dropped her voice. "Oriana, she's the new Thane of Whiterun. She might even be the Dragonborn!"

"Dragonborn? That's ridiculous."

"I know, I thought it had to be a joke, but those guards were serious. Later I asked a different guard about the dragon attack, and he said the new thane is definitely a young woman from Cyrodiil. They saw her take the dragon's soul and--"

"The legend of the Dragonborn is a Skyrim fairy tale." Oriana shook her head and began leading the colt back to his stall.

"The Dragonborn is not a fairy tale," said Kell, rising so abruptly that she overturned the stool and startled the colt. The horse pulled against the rope and reared.

It took Oriana a moment to settle the horse, taking the rope firmly and speaking low soothing words. Once the colt was calm and secured in his stall, Oriana turned to glare at Kell. "What were you thinking? He could have kicked my head in."

Kell looked away. Though she felt ashamed, she was too indignant to apologize. "The Dragonborn is just as real as your Champion of Cyrodiil."

"I'm not convinced the Champion was real either. Besides, you say this Mehra is a Breton. Isn't the Dragonborn supposed to be a Nord?"

Kell didn't want to admit she was plagued by this very question. The Dragonborn was the hope and pride of Skyrim, a legend that stirred the heart of every true-blooded Nord. How could the Dragonborn be a little Breton girl from Cyrodiil-- a faithless country that had turned its back on Talos? Was this some cruel trick of the Gods? Or was it all a strange gambit of Jarl Balgruuf? But Kell kept these thoughts to herself.

"Even if you don't believe in the Dragonborn, she's still the Thane of Whiterun," said Kell. "That means trouble. She seems attached to him."

"He's using her," muttered Oriana.

"Maybe he is, but she doesn't know that. If he disappears, she'll notice. Also, after he heard about Jaree-Ra, I was worried he'd give us the slip, so I hung around near the inn for a while. I saw him slip out and visit Dragonsreach."

"Is he still at Dragonsreach?"

"No, he returned to the inn. But he must have gone running to her for protection."

Oriana cursed and began pacing.

"Maybe we should find a new target?" asked Kell hopefully. "It's not as if he's worth that much, and he's already costing us a lot of time and money."

"No. This isn't about the money and you know it."

"Do I? You never told me why you're after him."

"Yes I did. I told you he betrayed me and my brother."

"That could mean anything," said Kell, her voice rising. At this one of the horses stomped in agitation. Kell winced and lowered her voice. "I went along with all this because you helped me once, but I don't like being kept in the dark. I've already dragged my butt from Windhelm to Whiterun to Dawnstar and back to Whiterun again just to help you nab this one elf. I'd like to know why I'm on this goose chase before some thane or jarl gets mad and throws me in the clink."

Oriana started to speak, her eyes full of defiance, but she stopped. After a moment she sighed and leaned against one of the stalls. "All right. Maybe I haven't been fair to you in all this."

"Does that mean you're going to tell me what this is about?"

"It's a long story," said Oriana, her eyes downcast.

"We've got time."

"Several years ago in Cyrodiil, my brother Cosmo and I fell in with Rumarin and another fellow, a Dunmer named Erathes. They were a pair of graverobbers who went into crypts and ruins to dig up rare artifacts. Their luck had turned bad and they had found nothing but a few trinkets. Erathes decided they could do better. Rumarin knew a buyer who pays handsomely for Ayleid stones. Erathes knew a collector of rare Ayleid artifacts living in a mansion in the Imperial City. Inside the mansion was a vault full of varla and welkynd stones, a collection worth thousands.

"I knew Erathes from some thief-taking work we did a while back, and Cosmo and I were in a bad way and needed money, so when Erathes told us the plan, we agreed to help them break into the mansion and steal the collection. We succeeded," Oriana concluded, but there was nothing happy in her tone.

"You broke in and got the loot without a hitch?"

"Not quite. A servant saw us and tried to raise the alarm. Cosmo restrained and gagged him, but Erathes said that wasn't good enough. The servant had seen too much. To be safe, Erathes slit the man's throat."

Kell drew in a quick breath. "Oh shit. That made it a hanging job then, didn't it?"

"Yes. There was no turning back."

"So then what happened?"

"We made away with the stones and hid them. But the deal with Rumarin's buyer fell through, and we had to lay low for a while. The waiting wasn't easy. The theft was the talk of the city, and guards were on the watch for the culprits. Then the collector we robbed offered a reward to anyone who could give information leading to the return of the Ayleid stones. Printed notices started showing up everywhere."

"Wait, let me guess. Rumarin snitched on you."

Oriana's lip curled in disgust. "Yes. I'm sure he wanted the reward as well as the chance to save his neck. But they threw him in prison anyway. Not that he stayed there long. His testimony got him a light sentence."

"What about the rest you?"

"I served out a prison sentence. I was lucky. Erathes and my brother were both hanged." Oriana spoke as if she were talking about a stranger's life. Her voice was devoid of emotion. But her eyes were fierce, and Kell was afraid to look at her for long.

"The whole time I was in prison, all I wanted was to see that Altmer dangling from a noose," said Oriana, again in the same even tone. "I started looking for him as soon as I got out. Eventually I picked up his trail in Skyrim and learned that he owed a debt to Sarthis Idren. Sarthis is unforgiving and cruel-- I don't mind letting him make an example of Rumarin. You know the rest."

There was a long silence. "I'm so sorry," said Kell at last. "About your brother."

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to help me." Oriana's eyes bore into hers. "Will you?"

Kell had an unsettled feeling deep in the pit of her stomach, like peering from a dizzying height over the edge of a cliff. But she forced herself to smile and meet Oriana's eye. "Of course. You helped me after all. And you've got a plan that doesn't end with a bunch of Whiterun guards coming for us, right?"

Oriana didn't smile back, but the tension left her face. "You're right about one thing. We can't do anything while he's here in Whiterun, especially not with his guard up. But he never stays in one place for long. It's only a matter of time before he tires of Whiterun and leaves. When that happens, we'll make our move."

"So we wait?"

"We wait."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Resident Patient" episode of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" provided the inspiration for the heist Oriana describes.


	6. Alchemy

Mehra awoke to the bright and clear morning light streaming in through the window of her little room in Dragonsreach. She lay for a while under the warm blankets, letting the golden light play over her face. For the first time in many weeks she had enjoyed a long and restful sleep. Meeting with Jarl Balgruuf had dropped a great weight from her and the frightful dreams of mist and suffocating darkness had departed, leaving her to enjoy a peaceful and refreshing slumber.

Through the window she saw the great mountain. Yesterday the sight of it dominating the horizon was hard on her spirit but today it seemed to call to her. Now that Rumarin and Lydia would be her companions, the mountain she had feared to climb no longer cast a terrible shadow in her mind. Mehra began to see the journey ahead almost as an adventure.

As she got ready for the day, Mehra heard the dragon soul within her grumbling, as though he were displeased to be roused from sleep.

"It's going to be all right," Mehra said aloud to the dragon. "We're going to see the Greybeards soon. They'll know what to do."

_Dur mey, laan wah praal_ , said the dragon, sounding most irritated.

Mehra began pulling on her boots. "They'll see it was some sort of mistake," she said, talking as much to herself as to the dragon. "It's the only way any of this makes sense. They'll free you, I'm sure."

The dragon only made a discontented noise.

"And then I can go home." The happy thought buoyed Mehra's spirits. The sooner she put the mountain, the Greybeards, and this whole Dragonborn business behind her, the sooner she could return to Cyrodiil. She had been growing homesick for familiar sights, for her family, and for the company of her friend and mentor, Indrisa.

But all that must wait. There were plans to be made, supplies to be bought. Mehra opened her bag and began taking stock of everything she had. She was low on bandages, and as for food there were only a few strips of dried goat jerky. And she would need more healing potions. Rumarin had several such potions already, but Mehra liked carrying her own supply. And besides, it made her uneasy to know that Rumarin had stolen the potions. In some ways she couldn't blame him after what happened with the White Phial, but still it was wrong.

Mehra had nearly finished emptying her bag when she noticed a crumpled piece of folded paper at the bottom. She drew it out, smoothed it flat, and saw her name written in a bold but elegant hand. Tirel's letter.

For a long time Mehra stared at it. In Winterhold the mere sight of the letter had pained her, and she had nearly thrown it away unread. All those hours Tirel had spent talking to her, listening to her, pretending to care about her-- it had all been an elaborate ruse.

Mehra fingered the wax seal, wondering what Tirel had seen fit to write to her. Rumarin had suggested the letter might be an apology or an explanation. But even if it were more lies, Winterhold was miles behind her, and so was Tirel. She would likely never see him again. Here in this small safe room, with the warm morning light shining through the window, Mehra found she could look at the letter without fearing what it might contain. It was only a bit of paper. She already knew what Tirel was. What more could he say that would hurt her? Mehra broke the seal and began reading the letter:

_Mehra,_

_I hope you had a pleasant evening. I was so sorry to be called away, but I trust you will understand. Our mutual friend played a small prank involving the magicka wells. Being clever, he went above and beyond what his fellows asked of him, precipitating an interesting incident, something not foreseen by the font designers. No harm was done, but the wells required servicing by those of us charged with their care._

_Do not fear for our friend-- I met with him this morning and told him all is well. These things happen, and the school authorities understand that no harm was meant._

_I spent all of last night working with the wells, and much of the morning helping to write the report to the Archmage. I have had no sleep since yesterday, so I must get a few hours this afternoon. I should be refreshed by dinner time, and would be very pleased to have the honor of your company. I have a very important question to ask of you, so I do hope you will join me and give me a little of your time this evening._

_Your servant,_

_Tirel_

_P.S.: If Sergius asks to meet with you, do not, I beg, meet with him alone. Find me, or failing that, bring someone you trust._

Mehra sat puzzling over what she had just read. At least it explained why Tirel had never come looking for her after the party; he must have been fast asleep when she and Rumarin left Winterhold to find J'zargo. But the rest of the message left Mehra with more questions than answers. She was troubled by Tirel's assurance that J'zargo had nothing to fear when in fact Sergius later threatened to have J'zargo expelled. Had Tirel lied when he said all was well?

No, Mehra decided, that made no sense. Sergius had tried to use J'zargo to blackmail her into letting him have the dragon soul she carried. If Tirel were working with Sergius, it served no purpose for Tirel to assure her that J'zargo had nothing to fear.

But Tirel must have suspected that Sergius was up to something. Mehra reflected on how Tirel behaved during her first interview with Sergius, how Tirel had hovered protectively and tried to shield her from the enchanter's probing questions. Mehra again read the letter's closing words. Why had Tirel not wanted her to meet with Sergius alone? What had he feared?

_I have a very important question to ask of you_. Mehra's eyes lingered on those words. She thought back to the night of the party, the night that began so brightly. Tirel had wanted to say something to her, something that made him edgy, almost shy. But the crowds and the noise intervened. What had been on his mind? To persuade her to lay with him? It was the obvious answer-- too obvious. No, she didn't believe Tirel would go about it like that. But she couldn't think what else it might have been.

The sun shone full through the window. The day wouldn't wait. Mehra folded the letter and put it away, handling it with more care than when she had first received it. She would give it more thought later. For now she would go into town and buy supplies for the journey.

Mehra thought it best to find Lydia first. As she stepped out of her room and descended the stairs, Mehra felt a little stab of anxiety. Lydia had been unfailingly polite, but her cool manner and formal way of saying "Thane Mehra" were disquieting. Never mind that, Mehra told herself. I've only just met Lydia. She's probably different once you get to know her.

The Great Hall was filled with people this morning, finely dressed men and women of wealth and rank. They sat at long tables spread with fresh loaves of bread, steaming bowls of soup, and generous cuts of ham and steak. Seeing and smelling so much food made Mehra's stomach growl. She considered taking a place at one of the tables, but she saw no one she recognized, not even Lydia. No, there was Farengar the court wizard, and also the jarl's steward, but neither of them raised their eyes to acknowledge her.

Mehra shied away from the tables, got the attention of a passing servant, and asked where she might find Lydia.

"I saw her go into the war room," said the young servant woman, throwing a disapproving glance at Mehra's travel-worn clothes.

Mehra noticed the look and sighed to herself. She should have listened to J'zargo long ago when he said she should buy new clothes. Mehra had made excuses then. She didn't want to draw undue attention to herself; she might stain or tear any fine clothes she bought; buying potions was more important. But now Mehra felt that J'zargo had been right. People were often confused or mortified when they discovered that she was a thane, looking the way she did. Mehra resolved to buy new attire, something that would reflect well on Jarl Balgruuf and Whiterun.

In the war room Mehra found Lydia deep in conversation with Jarl Balgruuf's housecarl, Irileth, a Dunmer woman with stern features and a proud bearing. Their attention was turned to the map of Skyrim. Mehra paused, not wanting to interrupt them.

"You'll want to take the road south," said Irileth, tracing her finger along a route on the map. "That way is slower but safer."

"That was also my thought," said Lydia with a nod. "But have there been reports of Stormcloak activity that way?"

Mehra considered slipping away before they noticed her. She had been prepared to face Lydia, but not Irileth. Lydia was distant and formal, but Irileth barely acknowledged Mehra's existence. Mehra suspected they wouldn't welcome her into their discussion. Don't be silly, Mehra told herself. If they're considering the best routes to High Hrothgar, surely they want you involved. She forced herself to approach.

"Good morning," said Mehra.

"Good morning, Thane Mehra," said Lydia. Her tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly; Mehra wished she could read her. Irileth said nothing and gave only a curt nod.

"Sorry, have I interrupted?" asked Mehra, realizing at once that it was a foolish question. Of course she was interrupting.

"We were discussing the best routes to High Hrothgar," said Lydia.

"Which routes look best?"

"Irileth recommends the road that passes through Riverwood and Helgen. I agree with her."

"Through Helgen?" asked Mehra, growing alarmed. Helgen was a place she had no wish to see again. "But it was destroyed. There must be nothing left."

"Helgen is being rebuilt as we speak," said Lydia.

"Oh." Mehra thought this should reassure her, but it didn't. It was good that Helgen would be restored, but she was still loathe to return to the place where her life had nearly ended, where the black dragon had brought fire and horror and death.

"The work has only just begun," said Irileth, addressing Lydia and ignoring Mehra. "Helgen is now more Imperial camp than town, but it will be a safe place to stop for the night. Still, be on your guard and ask the Legionnaires at Helgen if the Stormcloaks are rallying again."

"I will," said Lydia.

"Aren't there other routes?" asked Mehra, turning her eyes to the map.

"None worth considering," said Lydia.

"But this road that goes around the north side of the mountain, is it--"

"The alternatives are either too slow or too dangerous. There would be no place to stop and buy supplies before we reached Ivarstead."

"I see." Mehra supposed Lydia must be right, but still she couldn't help feeling disheartened. Lydia had decided the matter without soliciting her opinion.

Irileth said, "I'd best make my rounds. Best of luck to you." Her parting look to Lydia seemed almost pitying.

After a brief silence Mehra said, "I was thinking of going to the market square today. To buy food and bandages and other things we might need. Would you like to come with me?"

"There's no need," said Lydia, her tone all business. "I put in the order for our supplies earlier this morning."

"Already?"

"I thought it best. Jarl Balgruuf wishes us to depart soon."

"But I thought..."

"Yes?"

Mehra was at a loss for words. Shouldn't she be grateful that Lydia was taking everything in hand? But instead Mehra felt resentful, and guilty for feeling so, and annoyed at herself for being so useless.

"I've made an account of everything," said Lydia. She pulled out a piece of paper and offered it to Mehra.

Mehra studied the list that was written in a plain, neat hand. Rations and water, bandages and dressings, an axe for cutting firewood-- Lydia had neglected nothing. But one entry caught Mehra's eye: _Potions_. That was all, no indication of what sort of potions they might be.

When Mehra asked about it, Lydia replied, "I sent for a few healing potions."

"Oh. That's good." Mehra thought perhaps she should leave it at that, but there were more questions in her mind. Not all healing potions were worthy of the name; they varied greatly in strength and quality. She asked, "Do you know what sort of healing potions they are?"

"The same sort given to all the guards and soldiers of Whiterun." There was an edge of impatience in Lydia's voice.

"Oh."

"Will there be anything else, Thane Mehra?"

"You don't have to call me that. Mehra is just fine." When Lydia made no reply, Mehra haltingly asked, "Is there nothing I can help with?"

Lydia's face showed a flash of annoyance. "I have everything in hand. You needn't worry."

"I-- all right."

"If there's nothing else, my Thane, I'll take my leave now." The words were polite, but Mehra heard the dismissal in Lydia's tone.

Mehra left Dragonsreach in low spirits. She strayed through the Winds District until she was in the shade of the dying tree. At the corner of the square, the same priest from yesterday shouted praise to Talos. A few people paused to listen before going on their way.

She settled on a bench and sorted through her thoughts. She had been looking forward to making preparations, but Lydia had taken charge and wanted no help from her. Mehra was beginning to feel like a piece of luggage, a burden to be carried.

Mehra was still making up her mind on what to do with herself when a little girl approached.

"Are you the Dragonborn?" asked the girl. Her thin face was flushed and her eyes red from crying. In her hands she clutched a little wooden box that rattled.

Mehra hesitated. How to answer such a question? She didn't believe she was the Dragonborn, but others did. "I'm Mehra," she said, hoping that would satisfy.

"Then you _are_ the Dragonborn," said the girl, sounding relieved. "I've been waiting for you to come down from Dragonsreach."

"What's your name?"

"Lucia. I need your help."

"I'll do what I can. What do you need?"

The girl hugged the box to herself. "It's my mother. She's... she's very sick." 

Mehra did her best to hide her dismay. She wasn't a healer, not any longer, but she couldn't simply turn away from the child. "How bad is your mother? Is anyone taking care of her now?"

"The healers at the temple have been helping her. She's with them now." The girl pointed at the tall building.

"What did the healers say? Do they know what's making her sick?"

"They said it's brain fever." The girl bit her quivering lip and held the box tighter.

"I'm so sorry," said Mehra softly. She knew the disease, a rare but terrible illness that ravaged body and mind. If not treated early and aggressively, the sickness could leave the sufferer dead. Or mad.

The child's voice turned pleading. "Will you come and heal her with your dragon magic? Please?"

"I'm-- I'm not sure I--"

"I'll give you everything out of my treasure box. You can have whatever you want." Lucia opened the wooden box and offered it to Mehra. Inside were glass beads, iridescent shells, bright coins, and other such things. Mehra once had a collection like it when she was a child.

Mehra bowed her head, hating what she was about to tell the girl. "I'm sorry, but I'm not a healer."

Lucia shook her head, not accepting this. "You're the Dragonborn and you have powers. You can help her."

"I don't have..." Mehra stopped. She had been about to deny having any powers, but that wasn't true. Somehow she had the Thu'um. But it wasn't strong, and even if it were, it had no power to heal.

"I'm very sorry," said Mehra. "I'd help your mother if I could, but I don't have that power." Seeing the hope go out of the girl's face, Mehra hastened to add, "It might be that your mother just needs more time, and eventually the healers will find a way to--"

Lucia closed the little box and clutched it to herself. "Then you're not the Dragonborn. Not really. If you were, you'd help."

"I'm sorry--"

"No. No you're not," said Lucia, angry tears starting in her eyes. She turned away and fled to the temple.

Mehra shook and felt as if she had just been struck. Her instincts pulled her in different directions. She wanted to follow the girl and help somehow. She wanted to run away and hide in misery. She wanted to wake up in her room in Kvatch and find that nothing had really changed, that she had never been sick, that she was still a healer, someone who could set things right.

The dragon spirit inside Mehra stirred, thrashed, and bellowed. In the past Mehra would have sought a quiet place to sit and wait out the tantrum, but now she ignored him and walked in the direction of the temple. Mehra hardly understood why. What did she expect to accomplish? How could she help? But she brushed away the question and went on.

Nothing about the temple exterior suggested a place of worship. There were no stained glass windows or even icons or sigils to Kynareth. But the twin doors bore graven images of dragons, which struck Mehra as strange. What did dragons have to do with the goddess of the winds and heavens?

Mehra passed into an immense room, open and airy and hushed, with dozens of latticed windows letting in the sun. The morning light shone on a floor mosaic of a gull in flight, the bird of Kynareth. A priest watered pots and containers overflowing with fragrant herbs, a young guard knelt in prayer at the shrine, and an older woman sat alone on a bench in meditative silence.

Following a side passage, Mehra passed rooms where robed priests and their orderlies tended to the needs of the sick and ailing-- bandaging a farmer's mangled hand, giving medicine to a coughing child, helping an old man into bed.

At the end of the passage in a dimly lit room, Mehra found Lucia. The girl clung to the hand of a frail woman who lay in bed.

Mehra took halting steps toward them. Lucia looked up, glared at Mehra, and turned her face away. The sick woman took no notice of the visitor.

"What do you want?" asked Lucia, still refusing to look at Mehra. "You said you weren't going to help."

"How is she?" Mehra came a little closer. The poor woman showed all the signs of brain fever gaining the upper hand: Sallow skin, labored breathing, eyes bright with fever.

"She's-- she's--" Lucia broke down and sobbed. Mehra put out her hand to try to comfort the girl, but Lucia pushed her away and said, "Go away! If you won't heal her then just go away."

"What's going on?" asked a new voice. It was a robed orderly carrying a moistened towel and a tumbler of water.

Mehra struggled to answer. "I-- I came to--"

"This woman is very ill. You must leave at once."

Mehra tried to offer some explanation, tried to stutter out an apology, but her voice failed her. She fled from the room and didn't stop until she was out of the temple and in the shade of the dying tree, where she sank down on a bench and hid her face in her hands and told herself she was useless, useless, useless.

Presently Mehra took a shaky breath and uncovered her face. She sat quietly and felt the cool breeze, watched the passers-by, listened to the shouts of the priest. The world was carrying on as usual. Mehra began to feel annoyed with herself. What was the good of sitting here wishing for the impossible? She could not will her magic to come back. She could not stop the girl's mother from dying. She could wish as hard as she wanted and the world would never bend to her will.

Gradually Mehra's mind strayed to other matters. There was still the journey to High Hrothgar to think of. She wanted to buy supplies. But no, Lydia has already taken care of everything. Even Lydia thinks I'm useless.

This bitter thought spurred Mehra to her feet, and she began walking to the marketplace. Lydia might think Mehra incapable of planning for a long expedition, but why should Mehra let Lydia's judgment stop her from buying her own personal supplies? Mehra was used to carrying her own bandages, potions, and salves, and she would have them.

The marketplace was full of people going from stall to stall to buy fresh vegetables, cuts of meat, and fish caught from the river. Mehra threaded her way through the crowd, intent on reaching the apothecary.

Mehra had nearly reached Arcadia's Cauldron when Rumarin exited from a neighboring shop. Mehra almost didn't recognize him. His war paint was gone, he had traded his robes for a belted tunic, and he was carrying a frying pan.

Rumarin greeted Mehra cheerfully enough, but when she came near he began to look nervous. Mehra thought she knew why. She had been close to tears, and Rumarin always seemed half afraid of her when she was near her breaking point.

"Has something bad happened?" asked Rumarin, fidgeting with the skillet. "I've got a new frying pan. Do you need me to hit someone over the head?"

"No, I'm fine," said Mehra. She didn't want to think about what had happened at the temple, let alone talk about it. "You bought new clothes?"

"Yes," said Rumarin, seeming relieved to take up a different subject. "Both my robes are practically rags, so I visited the clothiers shop. Luckily they had something in my size. Mostly." Rumarin fingered a cuff that stopped just short of his wrist.

"They look nice." Mehra didn't know what else to say. Until now Rumarin had always dressed like a mage and smeared war paint on his face. She wanted to ask why he had suddenly changed his look, but it didn't feel right to pry.

But Rumarin seemed to catch the unspoken question. "I decided it was time for a change," he said. Though his tone was light and careless, there was something uneasy in his manner. "Besides, I'm tired of being mistaken for a College mage. Bloody thieves. By the way, where's your housecarl?"

"Lydia is making preparations for the journey," said Mehra, feeling a sting of shame and resentment as she remembered her conversation with Lydia.

"You mean to say she's making all the decisions about our food and such."

"Yes."

"Oh Gods. Most Nords in this country have no aptitude for cookery, and soldiering types are even worse. We'd better have a backup plan in case she buys nothing but jerky and travel biscuits."

"Is that why you bought a skillet?" asked Mehra, hoping to change the subject.

"Why yes. Although I confess I already have buyer's remorse."

"What do you mean?"

"For one thing, it needs seasoning. For another, I like to travel light."

"It does look heavy."

"Very." Rumarin hefted the skillet. "You could crack a bandit's skull with this thing. But you need the right tools to cook anything worth eating."

"I didn't know you could cook."

"Otero taught me what he knew about cooking, which was considerable. The only thing he liked better than a bad joke was a good meal." After a pause Rumarin asked, "So where are you headed?"

Mehra pointed at the sign advertising Arcadia's Cauldron. "I want to buy some potions before we leave Whiterun."

"That's prudent. Fortunately we don't need many, seeing as I already have some healing potions."

"Yes, I remember," said Mehra, trying to sound neutral. It still bothered her that Rumarin had stolen the potions.

Rumarin must have picked up on Mehra's true feelings on the matter, because his tone became defensive. "You have to admit the College robbed us first."

Mehra chose her words with care. "Yes, but it was Sergius who took the phial from us."

"Is there a difference?"

"The potions were made by the alchemist, not Sergius."

"So you're saying I should have nabbed some enchanted baubles instead?"

"No-- no, that's not what I meant," said Mehra, feeling her face turn red. "It's just... did the alchemist ever wrong you? The way Sergius did?"

Rumarin no longer looked her in the eye. "All right, so I robbed the alchemist and not Sergius. But what do you want me to do about it?"

"I think--"

"Mail the potions back to Winterhold? Drop them on the nearest beggar?"

"No, I--"

"Or should I just admit that I'm a thieving scoundrel? Will that do?"

"You're not a scoundrel, Rumarin. You know I think better of you than that."

Rumarin started to reply, then broke off. He looked almost pained as he glanced away.

When the silence grew uncomfortable Mehra said, "We don't have to talk about it anymore. I'm going into Arcadia's shop now. Would you like to come?"

"You'll get odd looks if you wander around with the likes of me," said Rumarin, his eyes still avoiding hers. "Normal people don't carry skillets wherever they go. I think perhaps I'll head back to the Bannered Mare and see about getting this thing properly seasoned."

"All right." Mehra watched him go, feeling a little relieved to be alone again. She was out of sorts and needed to think. After a time she entered Arcadia's Cauldron.

The apothecary was almost oppressively warm, heated by a fire blazing in the hearth. Simmering in a cauldron over the fire was a thick soupy brew, likely one of Arcadia's remedies. Arcadia herself stood behind the counter, grinding dried elves ear leaves into a powder. The shop was exactly as it was the day Mehra first came here with J'zargo, a day that seemed long ago now.

"Welcome back, Thane Mehra," said Arcadia with a friendly nod. She was a thin woman with gray hair pulled tightly from her face. "Have you come for more healing potions?"

"Yes. But please, just call me Mehra," said Mehra. She had always been uncomfortable with her new title, but it was worse now that Lydia always addressed her as "Thane Mehra" with cold civility.

"I have fresh batches of tonics, salves, and potions. Please browse to your heart's content, and let me know if you need something in particular."

There was something soothing about browsing a well-appointed apothecary. Though Mehra had come to buy potions, she was soon distracted by jars filled with seed pods, glowing powders, iridescent beetles, and other things used in potion-making. They made Mehra think of Indrisa, who often brewed her own potions and kept a garden for that purpose. Indrisa was a skilled healer who could close a wound with a touch, and her interest in alchemy had long puzzled Mehra. Certainly potions were valuable and life-saving when there was no healer to help you, but Mehra had seen little point in learning alchemy when there was so much to know about restoration magic.

Looking around, Mehra noticed a table tucked away in a corner of the shop. At first Mehra assumed it was a place for storing glassware, but then she saw the alembic, the calcinator, and the mortar and pestle. It was an alchemy station. The sight of it stirred memories in Mehra. Indrisa spent many hours at a table like this one, grinding leaves and flower petals and even insects into a fine powder to use in some remedy or other.

Mehra asked Arcadia, "Is that where you make your potions?"

Arcadia looked to where Mehra pointed. "Sometimes, but I do most of my work upstairs. I leave that station here for my customers."

"Does that mean anyone can use it?"

Arcadia brightened. "Ah, so you're an alchemist?"

"I'm afraid not." After a pause Mehra added, "That is, I've studied it a little and made a potion before. But only once."

"It didn't hold your interest?"

Mehra examined a bottle filled with dartwing insects, lifeless but shining gemlike. "It's... it wasn't really that. I was visiting the College of Winterhold, and one of the students showed me how to make a potion. But I didn't stay long." She paused. She hadn't planned on saying quite so much to Arcadia. It was painful to remember what the terrible place had done to J'zargo, how it had transformed him into someone she didn't recognize and finally crushed his spirit. And then there was Tirel. He had made Mehra think he cared for her, but now she knew he had only been toying with her-- hadn't he? Now that Mehra had read his letter she was less sure of what she knew.

"I've never had cause to visit Winterhold, but they say it snows there most of the year," said Arcadia. "Their potions must be very expensive."

"Expensive?"

"I've a garden for growing much of what you see here," said Arcadia, nodding up at the braids of garlic, sprigs of lavender, and bundles of elves ears hanging from the ceiling. "But there's no keeping a garden alive in the snow. Since I rarely receive orders from Winterhold, I assume they must be using magic to grow what they need for potions."

"There's a greenhouse at the College. They have many flowers and butterflies and things I never expected to see. It's very beautiful."

"Ah, I ought to have guessed as much. Very practical, and a comfort it must be to the mages who miss living in greener places."

Mehra shook her head. "The greenhouse is at the top of a high tower, and hardly anyone goes there. Someone told me most people there don't know it exists."

"How strange!"

That was also Mehra's thought. Strange how such a lovely place would be so unknown. With sunlight streaming over glossy leaves and butterflies alighting on flowers, the greenhouse felt warm and safe, like another world hundreds of miles away from worries and cares. Mehra had spent hours there with Tirel; no one ever came to disturb them. Looking back, it struck Mehra as strange that Tirel had never used those private moments to so much as steal a kiss. She had wondered if he would. She had even wanted him to. But instead Tirel seemed curiously intent on showing her how to make a potion. Why had he done that?

Mehra stared at the alchemy station. If she tried, she thought she could remember the lessons in the greenhouse. She could make her own healing potion. It would be good to feel useful again.

"May I use your alchemy table?" asked Mehra.

"Certainly you may, as long as you clean up after yourself. Let me know what you need. I have ingredients, potion bottles, and many books on alchemy."

Mehra turned her attention to the recipe books, encyclopedias of herbs and flowers, and field guides to Skyrim and Cyrodiil. As she browsed, Mehra spotted a title she recognized. It was a beautifully illustrated guide to alchemy, one Tirel had loaned her from his personal library. She hesitated, then took it from the shelf.

Soon Mehra had bought everything necessary to make a simple healing potion. She studied the book until she was reasonably confident she knew what to do next, then took up the mortar and pestle.

Mehra paused to consider the heads of wheat and dried blisterwort mushrooms she was about to grind up. Many good potions were made from surprisingly ordinary things-- flowers, mushrooms, leaves, butterfly wings. Mehra had commented on this when Tirel was showing her how to weigh out enough mushrooms for a potion.

"It just doesn't seem like flowers and mushrooms would do so much," Mehra had told Tirel.

"Everything has its own magic," Tirel had explained, adding another blisterwort mushroom to the scale. "It's just a matter of learning how to put them together. They each contribute something to the whole."

"Indrisa used to say something like that. How some ingredients are toxic on their own, but when you combine them with the right components, they can help the body heal itself. They all balance each other."

Tirel had smiled then and said that Indrisa sounded very wise. Then he began showing her the best way to prepare the mushrooms for the potion. Mehra had tried to pay close attention, but when she watched Tirel's hands as he worked, or when he touched her own hands to gently correct her hold on a cutting knife, she was distracted by thoughts that had little to do with alchemy. 

Now Mehra frowned as she turned a page in the alchemy book. She reflected on how Tirel had suddenly put his own copy of this very book into her hands. She and Tirel had been alone in his room then. Mehra felt fluttery the whole time they talked, half anxious and half hopeful that something more might happen between them. It occurred to Mehra that if Tirel had wanted to win his wager, that would have been the perfect time to act.

But instead Tirel showed her how to play Alifin and talked about magic. Mehra feared that Tirel would become impatient or dismissive like J'zargo if she said too much about magic, but he never seemed annoyed. If anything he encouraged such talk. Then Tirel started opening up about himself. He told her a little of his home in Markarth, his plans for the future, and how he had once wanted to see the world and study with the traveling healers, the Vagus Medici.

Somehow the conversation turned to Helgen. Mehra told him how she had nearly been executed for aiding a wounded Stormcloak man. Tirel probed further, wanting to know exactly what had stopped her execution. When Mehra mentioned the black dragon, Tirel's demeanor changed. He looked troubled, almost afraid. He made a sudden excuse to leave and hurried away, though not before pushing the alchemy book into her hands and asking her to meet him in the greenhouse later. Mehra found it all bewildering. Why had Tirel wanted to know more about Helgen? Why had her account of the dragon disturbed him so much?

And what about everything else? The way Tirel had tried to shield her from Sergius? The important question he had wanted to ask her the night of the party? How did all of this fit with what J'zargo had told her-- that Tirel was only interested in bedding her to win a wager?

J'zargo would never lie about such a thing, Mehra was certain of that. But she was equally certain J'zargo wasn't warning her out of concern or friendship. Never before had he gazed at Mehra with such contempt nor spoken to her with such malice. J'zargo was not himself in those final days at the College; he seemed to think everyone was against him, even people like Finwen who were only trying to help him.

Mehra was coming no closer to answers. She sighed and brought her attention back to her work. She stirred the crushed wheat and blisterwort mushrooms into water, carefully poured the mixture into a glass retort, and started a flame under it. Soon the heated mixture would condense and drip into a waiting bottle as a concentrated and purified potion.

"That's nicely done," said Arcadia, who had come near to see Mehra's progress with the potion. Arcadia frowned as she studied Mehra herself. "But you look a little pale."

"Do I?"

Arcadia nodded solemnly. "Could be ataxia. It's a common problem in Cyrodiil. Are you running a fever?"

"No, no, I'm fine, thank you." Mehra took up a rag to wipe down the workbench, but the word "fever" gave her pause. In her mind she saw the pale face of the woman who lay dying of brain fever, blankets thrown off and eyes staring wide and unseeing.

"Can't be too careful, especially if you're traveling. Ticks can give you the rattles, you know. I have remedies for that."

But Mehra was no longer listening to Arcadia. She recalled something Indrisa had said about brain fever once, how the body's rising temperature was its way of fighting the infection. Most people believed you should make the patient cool and comfortable, but Indrisa insisted that the fever must be allowed to do its work. Instead of driving off the fever, you helped the patient endure it.

"Arcadia," said Mehra suddenly. "Please tell me, what would I need to make a potion for resisting heat and fire?"

"Why, that's simple enough. A potion of snowberries and dragon's tongue flowers would be the very thing."

"Would you help me make this potion? Please. It's important. I think we can save a woman's life."

* * *

Mehra stood catching her breath. She had run all the way to the temple, clutching the potion that Arcadia had helped her make, and now she was trying to explain herself to a skeptical priest of Kynareth.

"There's a woman here with brain fever," said Mehra between breaths. "I have something that can help her. This potion will--"

"Who are you?" demanded the robed priest, a tall bearded man. "What do you mean by barging in here like this? We don't accept potions from just anyone off the street. That could be nightshade juice for all I know."

"My name is Mehra, and this potion is a--"

"That name means nothing to me, and we're very busy here. Be on your way."

"Is everything all right?" This time it was a priestess who came near and spoke. Though her face was careworn, she had a look of calm authority.

"Of course, Danica," said the priest, his manner becoming deferential. "I was just telling this young woman that we only accept potions from alchemists we know."

"Arcadia helped me make this potion," said Mehra. She turned to the priestess and added, "It's for one of your patients, the woman who has brain fever."

Danica studied her a moment. "I beg your pardon, but who are you?"

"Mehra. I'm the Thane of Whiterun," said Mehra. This was no time to conceal her title, not if it could help save someone's life.

The man looked her up and down, aghast. "You? You're the Thane?"

Mehra ignored him and appealed to the priestess. "Please, take me to her and I'll show you what to do."

The woman's brow creased in thought. At last she said, "Come with me."

Mehra followed her into the sickroom at the end of the hall. The sick woman was there still, pale and drawn in the candlelight, her forehead shining with perspiration. The little girl Lucia was at her side, talking softly to her. Lucia started when Mehra and the priestess entered.

"What are you doing here?" asked Lucia, looking hard at Mehra.

"We're here to help." Mehra offered the potion to the priestess and instructed her to help the sick woman drink it. Mehra added, "And she'll need blankets. Make sure she's covered and kept warm."

"No," cried Lucia. "She's burning up with fever already, can't you see that?"

"This potion will help see her through it," said Mehra.

Danica considered this with a frown. "You're certain, Thane Mehra? What will this potion do?"

"It's a mixture of snowberries and dragon's tongue flowers." Mehra explained what she knew to the priestess, why the patient must be kept warm, why letting the fever run its course was necessary.

Danica was silent for a time. Mehra feared she would refuse to administer the potion, but at last the priestess nodded and took the bottle from her. Mehra breathed a sigh of relief.

When the priestess had done all that she could, Mehra sat nearby and watched the ailing woman for some sign of change. The woman's fever-bright eyes stared unseeing, her lips moved soundlessly, and her hands plucked weakly at the blanket. Lucia took her mother's hand and squeezed it. There was nothing more they could do now but wait and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dovahzul translations (from[Thuum.org](https://www.thuum.org/)):**  
>  Dur mey, laan wah praal: Cursed fool, I want to rest.
> 
> Gary wrote the letter from Tirel.


	7. When it Rains

Lydia had expected to reach Riverwood before dusk. The morning had brought fine weather and the settlement was an easy distance from Whiterun. Lydia had even arranged for a sturdy mule to carry most of their gear so that neither the girl Mehra nor the Altmer would be overburdened. Yet for Lydia's preparations their progress was agonizingly slow.

The mule was part of the problem. Every so often the mule strayed off course, paused to eat thistles, or stopped dead in its tracks for no discernable reason. At such times the Altmer who called himself Rumarin muttered profanities at the animal and yanked ineffectually at the lead. Lydia knew they would make better progress if she took charge of the mule, but she was determined to make the Altmer earn his keep.

Then there was the girl. Mehra was small and not a fast walker. Lydia was used to long steady marches in sun, rain, or snow, and though she tried to curb her normal pace, Mehra struggled to keep up. Lydia's mood soured when she realized they would never reach Riverwood before nightfall.

None of this would have mattered if they had left Whiterun at dawn as Lydia had planned. Instead she was forced to spend much of the morning searching for Mehra, who had slipped away from Dragonsreach without a word to anyone. Lydia went to the Bannered Mare to ask Rumarin about Mehra's whereabouts and was furious to discover that the elf had not yet packed his belongings or even dragged himself out of bed. Rumarin had blinked stupidly at Lydia, said he hadn't the slightest idea where Mehra might be, and made some irritating joke about not being able to make his brain work before breakfast.

Lydia suspected Rumarin had been lying when he said he didn't know where Mehra had gone, because it was Rumarin who later found her and brought her back to Dragonsreach. Mehra looked as if she had been weeping and refused to say where she had been or why she had left. When Lydia asked Rumarin where he had found her, he was evasive and refused to give a straight answer.

It was late morning when they left Whiterun, and Lydia was seething. This wouldn't happen if she were leading soldiers or even household servants on an expedition-- there would be no tardiness, no excuses, no snide remarks. But fair or not, Mehra was the Thane of Whiterun, and Lydia was compelled to bite her tongue and address her as "my Thane" even if the girl had done nothing to deserve the title.

"My stomach says it's lunch time," said Rumarin after they had been walking for some time. "So does the mule, apparently." He glared at the beast which had stopped to sample a patch of mountain flowers.

Lydia found herself disliking the elf more and more. If he were a newly enlisted soldier and she his commander, he wouldn't be making flippant remarks for long. He would be drilled and disciplined and pushed to his limit until he either learned respect or became too tired to make wisecracks. Lydia was tempted to keep them all marching on principle, but a glance at Mehra told her they should take a break. Mehra had paused to catch her breath.

"Very well," said Lydia. "We'll stop for a moment."

Mehra sank down on a log. Rumarin tied the mule to a tree and reached into one of the bags. There was a great clatter as he pulled out a skillet and other cooking utensils.

"What do you think you're doing?" asked Lydia.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Rumarin gestured with the skillet. "I'm about to make us a civilized meal."

"No. We don't have time."

"Who doesn't have time for cooked bacon?"

"That requires chopping wood and building a fire. We're already delayed and we have other things to eat. Put it back."

The Altmer looked as if he would argue. Lydia's eyes bore into his until he was finally cowed. He put everything away, sat on the log next to Mehra and muttered, "I guess that means jerky for lunch."

Mehra made no reply. Since they left Whiterun she had been quiet and morose, saying little to Rumarin and almost nothing to Lydia.

They ate in silence. Presently Rumarin looked at Mehra and said, "A fine day to you."

Mehra put her head in her hands. "I can't. Not now."

"What are you talking about?" asked Lydia, bewildered by this exchange.

"She doesn't want to play Withershins," said Rumarin with a sigh. He addressed Mehra again. "You've hardly spoken all day. Is it because of the letter you got this morning?"

Lydia's attention sharpened. She didn't know Mehra had received a letter before they left Whiterun.

"Is Golden Boy giving you a hard time?" asked Rumarin.

Mehra looked at him reproachfully. "Do you have to keep calling him that?"

"If he's bothering you, you could always have one of the servants in Whiterun write back and tell him where he can stick his letters. Or I suppose you could just stonewall him. He's sure to get the idea eventually."

Mehra turned her face away. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Who is 'Golden Boy'?" asked Lydia. It annoyed her that the Altmer knew more about the letter than she did. Rumarin wasn't Mehra's housecarl. He wasn't family or even an old friend. He was almost a stranger who had not known the girl above a month. He shouldn't be traveling with them at all, yet somehow he had gained Mehra's trust and part of her stipend-- money that had paid for the fine new leather armor and boots he now wore.

"His name is Tirel," said Mehra in a low voice.

"And who is Tirel?" asked Lydia.

When Mehra gave no answer, Rumarin shrugged and said, "He's just an acquaintance of ours in Winterhold."

"That could mean anything. What sort of 'acquaintance' is he, and why is he contacting the thane?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it," said Mehra, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Thane Mehra, I have a duty to see that you reach High Hrothgar safely. If there's anything in the letter that might endanger this mission, I need to know."

"It has nothing to do with this mission. Or you." The girl's voice was bitter.

"Very well, my Thane," was Lydia's cold reply. "Let's be on our way."

They walked without speaking, hearing only the wind through the trees and the roar of the White River to their left. At intervals the river went over sharp drops and became a curtain of white mist. Through the towering pines to the west Lydia glimpsed the meadows and pastures of Whiterun far below, quilted by squares of farmland. It was Whiterun grain that fed Skyrim, Whiterun stables that bred some of Skyrim's finest horses, and Whiterun soldiers who kept Skyrim's central roads safe. Thinking of her homeland filled Lydia with pride-- and foreboding.

Ulfric Stormcloak wanted Whiterun. It was only a matter of time before the Jarl of Windhelm demanded Whiterun's allegiance. Lydia knew Jarl Balgruuf would never surrender Whiterun to the man who had murdered the High King and split Skyrim in two, and she also knew Ulfric Stormcloak was not a man to be refused; he would try to take Whiterun by force. Lydia thought, I should be in Whiterun right now. I should be helping Irileth prepare for war. Jarl Balgruuf could have sent anyone to escort this girl to High Hrothgar. Any veteran soldier or scout could see to it. Why did he want me away? Did I anger him?

"Hold on, I need to stop a moment," said Rumarin, calling Lydia's mind back to the present.

Lydia turned to face him. "Why?"

"Call of nature."

Lydia clenched her jaw. "Why didn't you heed it when we stopped earlier?"

Rumarin shrugged. "It wasn't calling then."

"Too bad."

"The situation is becoming urgent. Really. My nice new armor is at stake. Something might explode and--"

Lydia snatched the mule's lead from him. "Fine, go, but make it quick."

"My bladder is in your debt," said Rumarin, walking down the path and disappearing through some shrubbery.

Lydia looked up through the pines. She didn't like the look of the swollen gray clouds gathering in the sky.

Mehra stepped off the road and knelt to examine some shelf mushrooms clinging to a fallen tree. She began harvesting them, using a small knife to cut and pry them loose.

Lydia watched the girl. She was young, this Breton from Cyrodiil, only just grown. Her fawn-colored leather tunic barely qualified as armor, and though she wore a sword, Lydia doubted she could wield it with any skill. There was nothing of the warrior in her. Yet everywhere in Whiterun was talk of Mehra being the Dragonborn, and Jarl Balgruuf had made her his thane. It all defied reason.

As a child Lydia had learned the songs of the Dragonborn by heart. She had even played at being the hero of legend, battling hundreds of imaginary dragons with a wooden sword. The foretold Dragonborn was a leader, a fighter, and above all a dragon slayer. The girl who knelt on the ground picking mushrooms was none of these things. Irileth herself had said Mehra had done nothing during the dragon attack. How could anyone think she might be the Dragonborn?

Rumarin came running back, stumbling through foliage as if fleeing for his life. By instinct Lydia's hand went to the hilt of her sword, but nothing came out of the brush to threaten them.

"What's going on?" asked Lydia.

Rumarin caught his breath. "I think someone might be following us."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Whoever it was stayed out of sight-- but I heard them moving about."

"Maybe it was an animal?" said Mehra.

Rumarin shook his head. "It didn't move like any animal."

Lydia frowned. If they were being followed, that was bad. If the Altmer was spooked at nothing, that wasn't much better. It would mean he had either delicate nerves or a guilty conscience. "Where did you see this?" she asked.

Rumarin threw an uneasy glance over his shoulder. "Hadn't we better hurry on?"

"We need to know what we're dealing with. Thane Mehra, stay close to me."

Reluctantly Rumarin began walking down the path, leading them to the place where he had heard the stranger. Lydia turned the mule over to him and inspected the area. Thick clouds blotted out much of the remaining daylight, but Lydia managed to find areas of disturbed grass and earth. The tracks from the Altmer's large boots were easy to pick out. Nearby Lydia found a different set of fresh footprints. The stranger had lingered here, then suddenly backed away and fled down the slope toward Whiterun. Whoever it was, they were long gone now.

Lydia looked at Mehra. The girl seemed concerned but not especially afraid. Lydia fixed her gaze on the Altmer. There was fear in him. His eyes held the look of someone who knows he's being hunted.

"There's something you're not telling us," said Lydia.

Rumarin gave an unconvincing smile. "Of course I'm not telling you everything. Surely you don't want all the details about how I was busy relieving myself when it happened."

"You know damn well what I meant."

"Do I?"

"I think you know who followed us. Or you have a good idea who it was."

"I was just startled, that's all. It was rather like having a spider jump on you. A normal spider, that is, not one of those hideous arachnids of unusual size that could devour a--"

"Shut up."

Rumarin closed his mouth. He looked away and picked at the frayed end of the mule's rope.

Mehra spoke up. "Whoever it was, they're gone now, and they didn't attack us. Maybe there's nothing to worry about."

Lydia ignored her and took a step toward the Altmer. "Who are you running from?"

Rumarin nervously backed up into the mule, which let out an annoyed bray. "No one," he said. Sweat beaded his forehead.

"Bullshit." Lydia advanced another step.

Mehra moved to put herself between them. "Lydia, please-- if he says he doesn't know, then he doesn't know."

Lydia looked down at her, incredulous. "You believe him?"

"Yes." Though Mehra's voice was soft and her eyes uneasy, there was something stubborn in the set of her jaw.

Lydia considered her for a moment. Could Mehra really be that naive? Or did she know the Altmer was lying and decided to protect him anyway for her own foolish reasons? Lydia pulled in a deep breath. "Thane Mehra, why did you insist on bringing him?"

"Because he's my friend."

"This isn't a pleasure trip, Thane Mehra. My duty is to see you safely to High Hrothgar, and I won't let anything interfere with that duty. Not even your wishes."

Rumarin stirred uneasily. Mehra's eyes opened wider. "What are you saying?"

Lydia made each word hard and distinct. "I'm saying that if it turns out this Altmer is being followed, he's not coming any further with us."

"But you can't just--"

"I won't let him endanger you or this mission and that's final."

"Well he's-- he's not being followed," said Mehra, her voice unsteady.

"Let's hope so, my Thane."

Rumarin cleared his throat. "If I may say--"

"Not another word," said Lydia with a look that made him flinch. "One more smartass remark from you and you're done."

They continued their journey in silence. Rumarin sometimes looked nervously over his shoulder, but he never spoke now, not even to insult the mule when it was being difficult. Mehra stayed close to Rumarin and stared ahead at nothing, her expression despairing.

Daylight was nearly gone, choked off by the dark clouds. The wind picked up and the sky rumbled. Then the rain started, a sprinkle at first, then a light shower, then a torrent that soaked them to the skin and churned the ground into mud. Lydia cursed their luck. Riverwood was not yet in sight.

Bolts of lightning lit up the sky. For an instant the world turned white and shook with thunder. It was too much for the mule. The beast brayed and kicked and fought, pulling Rumarin off his feet and dragging him through the mud. The mule slipped free and ran until it was lost from sight.

Lydia hauled the Altmer to his feet. He was shaken and covered in mud but otherwise seemed unhurt. Mehra said something to Rumarin, perhaps asking if he was all right, but her words were lost in the thunder and pelting rain. At Lydia's urging they made a brief search, but it was no good. The mule was gone, and with it much of their supplies. At last they gave up and trudged on in cold wet misery to Riverwood.

Riverwood was a lumber mill town with only a dozen or so families living in cottages by the White River. In the pouring rain the buildings all looked the same, but Lydia had been to Riverwood many times and had little trouble finding the town's inn, the Sleeping Giant.

Dripping wet and shivering, Mehra and Rumarin went to the fire to warm themselves. They couldn't have been more soaked if they had jumped into the river. A few customers stared at the bedraggled newcomers, but they soon lost interest and turned their attention back to a handsome bard singing a popular drinking song.

Lydia went to the innkeeper and secured rooms for the night. The three of them took turns washing up and changing into clean dry clothes, then they sat quietly to a dinner of lukewarm and tasteless stew.

Rumarin sat hunched in his chair and seemed afraid to look in Lydia's direction or do anything to draw attention to himself. For her part, Lydia was livid with him. They would be forced to spend valuable time and money buying more supplies to replace what they lost. Since Riverwood likely had no mules or ponies for sale, they would have to carry everything themselves. Lydia would have to explain the loss to Jarl Balgruuf and justify the expense, all because the damned Altmer couldn't control one mule. But Lydia judged it best to hold her tongue for now, at least while Mehra was present. Lydia knew Mehra would not like what she had to say.

Mehra was oddly protective of the Altmer. She put herself between him and Lydia, asked him if he had been hurt at all, and gave him some sort of salve for the rope burn on his hands. It made Lydia think of a child making a fuss over a stray dog or cat that no one with any sense wanted around.

When Mehra finally went to bed, Lydia chose that moment to speak to Rumarin.

"We'll have to buy more supplies in the morning," said Lydia.

Rumarin didn't lift his eyes from the table. "I know." He shifted in his chair. "Sorry about that."

"I know you didn't lose them on purpose, but it's a bad loss."

Rumarin nodded and said nothing. Now that he looked so dejected and wasn't running his mouth, Lydia almost felt sorry for him. He must be in bad trouble-- he had been genuinely frightened by whoever had followed them. Perhaps Rumarin was an outlaw, or perhaps he had simply made an enemy. But none of that was Lydia's concern, and she had her duty to Jarl Balgruuf to consider. The jarl would not want Lydia to expose the Thane of Whiterun to needless danger.

"You have a room here for the night," said Lydia. "You don't have to pay for it or the lost supplies. But this is where we part ways. When Mehra and I leave Riverwood, you won't be coming with us."

Some of the color drained from Rumarin's face. "Now wait-- hold on-- if it's a question of replacing the supplies, I could--"

"No, I'm afraid not. I expect you to be on your way in the morning." Lydia rose and started to leave, but the despair in his eyes gave her pause. "It's nothing personal, you understand."

Rumarin said nothing, only gave her a hangdog look. Lydia quickly turned and went to her room, telling herself it was for the best, it was the only right decision to make. With any luck, Rumarin would be gone by morning, and Lydia would simply have to tell Mehra that he was gone and that was that.


	8. A Stranger in the Dark

Rumarin sat in a corner of the inn and stared at nothing. All around him people talked and drank and laughed. A young bard strummed a lute and sang an old love ballad. The innkeeper scowled at two soldiers sloshing beer over a table. Rumarin took no notice of them. He was aware only of a rising panic that made his heart race and his palms sweat. Lydia's parting words had left him sick with fear, and it was some time before he began putting his thoughts in order.

Someone was following him, that much Rumarin knew. It must be a bounty hunter, maybe more than one, people who meant to catch him and drag him back to Riften and hand him over to Sarthis. The rest wasn't worth thinking about. Rumarin didn't have the money to pay what he owed to Sarthis. Rumarin suppressed a shudder at what that meant.

Rumarin was certain that Lydia's presence was the only reason no one had tried to catch him yet. No small-time bounty hunter would want to cross someone like Lydia, an alert warrior who was armed at all times. Lydia was intimidating, and she disliked Rumarin, but at the moment his life depended on her. And now that lifeline was cut. Lydia would not permit him to travel any further with her and Mehra.

Rumarin pressed his face into his hands and rubbed his temples. He felt his elbow bump against something-- the salve bottle that Mehra had left for him. On an impulse he picked it up. The little bottle was a pretty shade of green. Still plenty of salve inside, not that he really needed it. The rope burns weren't that bad. Mehra sometimes mothered him more than his own mother had, maybe more than even Otero had. Rumarin didn't understand it, but it would be a lie if he said he wasn't touched.

His hand tightened around the little bottle. Lydia was right. If he was being followed, then his presence was endangering Mehra. Taking himself away would be the right and decent thing to do. Rumarin laid his head on the table and sighed. I'm no good at being noble, especially not now. What should I do? What can I do? I don't want to die.

A clatter distracted Rumarin from his misery. He looked up to see the innkeeper collecting empty bowls and mugs from the table.

"You all right, friend?" asked the innkeeper, a big man with a gruff voice.

"Not particularly."

"Your mug's empty. Maybe you need another drink."

"No-- yes-- oh I don't know."

The innkeeper shrugged. "Well, you know where the bar is."

Rumarin watched him walk away. He considered flagging down the man and asking for more Honningbrew. Thanks to Mehra and Jarl Balgruuf he had a little money now, more than enough to drink himself into a stupor if he wanted. It would solve nothing, but it might make him forget his desperation for a while. No, he needed to think his way out of this mess, and for that he needed a clear head.

Damn that mule anyway, why did it have to run away with all their supplies? Why did Lydia have to buy such an ornery animal? Why couldn't she have taken the time to show him how to guide and control the mule? Rumarin didn't know how you persuaded mules to do your bidding, but Lydia seemed to expect him to pick up the knack on his own. It wasn't fair.

None of it mattered now. The mule was gone. Probably it was trotting its way back home right now-- wait a minute. Yes. The mule would be running home to Whiterun, where else would it go? Whiterun wasn't that far. With luck Rumarin could track it down and bring it back before the night was over. If he managed to do it before Lydia was forced to buy new supplies in the morning, it might raise him a little in her estimation. She might relent and let him travel with them again. It was worth a try. It was his only chance.

But someone was still out there hunting for him. Alone in the night, Rumarin would be ripe for ambush. Rumarin anxiously twisted the little bottle in his hands and tried to make his mind work. The answer became obvious. He needed someone to go with him. Rumarin looked around at the inn. Still plenty of people enjoying their drinks and talking the night away. And his pockets weren't empty. Surely someone would be willing to help him if he waved some money at them.

Tucking away the little green bottle, Rumarin got up and went to the innkeeper and asked him if Riverwood had any good trackers.

"You'll be wanting Faendal," said the innkeeper. "Works the lumber mill by day, likes to hunt his game at night."

"Where might I find him?"

"There he is now enjoying a pint." The innkeeper nodded his head at a Bosmer. The elf sat apart from everyone, sometimes scowling into his drink, other times throwing hostile looks at the singing bard. Not a promising sort, but perhaps his mood would lift once Rumarin put the proposition to him.

The Bosmer looked surprised but not displeased when Rumarin asked to join him. "Please do," he said. "I could use a distraction from that Nord's caterwauling."

Rumarin listened for a moment. The bard had a pleasant voice, high and clear, and he used it well. Rumarin decided the Bosmer had taken a dislike to the bard for reasons that had nothing to do with music.

"These people seem hungry for a song," said Rumarin, indicating the men and women crowding around the bard to better hear him sing. "I suppose there's not much entertainment to be had."

Faendal made an annoyed gesture. "You'd think they never heard anyone sing before. Sven isn't even very good. But Camilla goes on about his insipid ballads and sonnets like he's touched by Dibella."

"There's no accounting for taste," said Rumarin. "By the way, I wonder if you might--"

"The worst part is the lazy oaf doesn't deserve Camilla. Sven studied music in Solitude and couldn't make it as a bard in the world, so now he lives off his mother. Hardly lifts a finger to help her when she needs firewood, I can tell you that much."

"Scandalous," said Rumarin, trying to think of the best way to move the conversation in the right direction. "A woman with any sense would rather have someone who can provide. Say, a woodsman or a hunter. You are a hunter, aren't you?"

"Yes, I hunt. I catch all my meat and sell what I don't need to the inn and others who want it. Do you hunt yourself?"

"Hunting and tracking aren't exactly my specialties. Actually, I find myself in need of a hunter, and the innkeeper says you're a good one."

Faendal looked at him askance. "What is it you need?"

"My companions and I lost a mule on the way to Riverwood. The storm frightened the animal and it bolted off into the night with most of our supplies. I need help tracking it down."

Faendal asked which way the mule went. When Rumarin told him, the Bosmer's interest waned. "It seems a simple matter," said Faendal with a shrug. "You'll probably find your mule in Whiterun, especially if that's where you bought it."

"But suppose the mule took a wrong turn during the storm and went astray? We'd like to get our supplies back, and I don't want to take any chances. Besides," Rumarin added with a nod at the bard, "it's bound to be more interesting than listening to this fellow sing all night."

"Well, if you can make it worth my while..."

Rumarin reached into his pouch and withdrew a few septims. The promise of money settled the matter.

They went out into the night. Though the rains had stopped, clouds still blanketed the sky and obscured the brightness of the twin moons. The air was heavy with moisture and the ground sodden. Rumarin tried to avoid the worst of the mud and muck, but his boots became dirty all the same. He would have to scrape them clean again.

They stopped by Faendal's house so he could collect his bow and hunting knife. "I know we're only after a mule, but I never go far without them," he explained. Then he lit a torch and passed it to Rumarin.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," said Rumarin, relieved to set out with an armed companion. 

As they neared the bridge Rumarin noticed tents and temporary shelters at the edge of town, illuminated by lanterns. At first Rumarin thought it was a large Khajiit caravan, but most of the people huddling in these shelters were Nords and Imperials.

"Refugees from Helgen," said Faendal. "Riverwood is a small town and we don't have room for them all. But they're starting to leave now that Helgen is being rebuilt."

They crossed the stone bridge over the rushing river. The night was peaceful, but Rumarin made sure his dagger was handy and kept a sharp eye out, suspicious of every shadow.

Faendal hadn't the least idea there was anything to fear, and for some time he talked about his love Camilla and the bard who was trying to woo her away from him. Rumarin found it all very tedious, but he decided it was best to feign interest, nod his head and make sympathetic noises. That is until Faendal began talking about a scheme to remove his hated rival from the picture.

"Hold on," said Rumarin. "You're planning to give Camilla what exactly?"

"A letter from Sven," said Faendal. "Or at least Camilla will think he wrote it. I can forge his signature and have it say all sorts of nonsense about how he looks forward to having Camilla wash his linens and cook his dinner and clean his house. Just like his mother does."

"Didn't you say Camilla is intelligent?"

"She is indeed."

"If she's as clever as you say, she'll see right through it. Besides, gambits like that always backfire in plays. Either the woman finds out and goes running into the rival's arms or everyone dies horribly. Or both."

"Well what else am I supposed to do?" said the Bosmer, sounding annoyed.

"Flowers, sweetrolls, expensive jewelry-- I'm sure you'll think of something." Rumarin paused to glance about. Even by day he had trouble telling one tree or boulder from another, but something about the wooded area struck him as familiar. He said, "I think this is where the mule ran off. The distance feels about right."

Faendal took the torch from him and inspected the area, making note of trampled clumps of grass and broken branches of low shrubs. "Yes, I see where it went," he said. "This way."

They went on, the Bosmer pausing now and then to observe some new sign of their quarry. Rumarin felt encouraged. With any luck he would have the mule back in Riverwood before morning.

Faendal suddenly paused and frowned. "Hm. Interesting."

"What?" asked Rumarin, growing uneasy.

Faendal squatted to examine fresh marks in the road. "Someone found the mule and started leading it to Riverwood."

"Started to?"

"Yes. But they stopped, then turned..." Faendal stood and followed the tracks. He paused at the edge of the road where the ground sloped up toward the rocky face of a mountain.

"Up there?" Rumarin's pulse quickened. Suppose the person hunting him had led the mule up there? Suppose it was a trap?

Faendal started up the slope. Rumarin swallowed hard and followed close behind, his hand straying to his concealed dagger. The dagger was not so fine as a blade summoned from Oblivion, but pulling out a real weapon was faster. It was also not a glowing target that could be spotted yards away in the night.

They followed the length of a fallen tree, a great pine nearly as wide as a man is tall. At the end of the fallen tree they came to a little clearing. Snubbed to a small tree was the mule, which was calmly nosing at a patch of grass.

Rumarin's relief was great. Here at last was the mule he sought, and there was no one in the clearing but himself and Faendal.

"There's your animal," said Faendal. "Anything damaged or missing?"

Rumarin went to the mule. The beast was still damp from the passing storm, but otherwise it was as sturdy and hale as ever. He patted down the bags. "Nothing seems to have gone astray."

"That's a lucky thing. Well, why don't we--" Faendal broke off and froze.

In the flickering light of the torch Rumarin saw the wide-eyed look on the Bosmer's face and knew what it meant. They weren't alone. Cold fear took hold of Rumarin and left him paralyzed.

Faendal took a cautious step towards the root-end of the fallen tree. The darkness gaping there showed that the tree was hollow. From within came the tiniest sound, a suggestion of movement. Someone or something was in there. Rumarin held his breath and gripped his dagger hard.

The Bosmer took another step and brought the torch close to the cave-like opening of the tree. He squinted, then gave a short laugh of surprise. "Well I'll be. It's a Khajiit."

"A what?" Rumarin hurried forward to look. What he saw made him groan. "Oh no. It's _you_."

Within the gaping hole of the tree was the huddled form of a Khajiit, looking utterly pitiful in robes that were wet and dirty and ragged. It was J'zargo.

"You know this Khajiit?" asked Faendal.

Rumarin scowled. "Unfortunately yes. I won't bore you with all the sordid details, but he's cost me a lot of trouble. And money. Well?" he said, addressing J'zargo. "Are you going to stay in there all night?"

Reluctantly J'zargo crawled out of the hole and stood up. Dirt and wet leaves and bits of grass clung to his tail and the hem of his robes. He kept his head bowed and his eyes on the ground.

"What are you even doing out here?" asked Rumarin.

J'zargo gave no answer, only twitched his tail and stared at his feet.

"Well, ah..." Faendal looked between Rumarin and J'zargo. "If you won't be needing me, I'll just be heading back to Riverwood."

Rumarin had nearly forgotten about the Bosmer. "Oh, yes, right. Thanks for your help, good luck with, uh, Carmen--?"

Faendal shot him an annoyed glance. "Camilla. You know the way back, I expect."

"Right. Follow the river. Shouldn't be too hard for a halfwit like me."

Faendal went away muttering to himself. When he was gone, Rumarin turned back to J'zargo. 

"So you were the one following us today."

J'zargo answered with a nod.

"Haven't see anyone else lurking about, have you?"

J'zargo shook his head. "There was no one else. Only this one."

Relief swept over Rumarin. Bounty hunters weren't pursuing him from Whiterun after all. But still he was put out with J'zargo. In the first place J'zargo was almost the last person he wanted to see, and in the second place Rumarin could have done without having his nerves shot and Lydia's suspicions aroused.

"So what happened?" asked Rumarin. "Did your new caravan finally have enough of you and send you packing?"

J'zargo did not lift his eyes. "This one left."

"And you left why exactly?"

In a hesitating voice J'zargo said, "To find Mehra."

Rumarin made a scornful sound. "Oh, now you want to travel with Mehra? After we dragged ourselves through a dangerous mountain pass on your account? Through a winter storm that could have frozen us to death? Past a dragon that could have had us for dinner?"

"This one-- this one did not think anyone would follow. If this one had thought that you or Mehra would do such a thing..."

"Me follow a swaggering, strutting, self-important Khajiit who's done nothing but insult me and give away our phial to a crusty old thief in College robes? I only came along because Mehra insisted on going after you. And after all that, even after Mehra pleaded with you to come with us, you turned away from her." Rumarin saw J'zargo flinch and could not resist twisting the knife a little. "She was inconsolable after that, you know."

J'zargo squeezed his eyes shut. "This one knows he is undeserving. This one was stupid and cruel and blind."

"Yes, you rather were."

" _Thjiz ja'qara_ ," said J'zargo with a catch in his voice. " _Na yasti_. This one wronged you both. This one is sorry. He does not deserve your forgiveness."

Rumarin was speechless. He had thought J'zargo would snap out of his melancholy by now. The J'zargo he knew would have drawn himself up and cursed and insulted Rumarin, or at least made excuses for himself. But now there was no such fire in him.

With a sigh Rumarin let his gaze stray back to the mule. His spirits lifted a little. He had found the lost mule and all their supplies, and now all he had to do was bring it back to Riverwood.

Rumarin looked at J'zargo again. The Khajiit was pitiful with his downcast eyes and sagging tail and dirty wet robes. Rumarin didn't like him much, but he couldn't very well turn his back on the wretched fellow and leave him to fend for himself. Besides, Mehra would be overjoyed to see J'zargo again.

"Come on," said Rumarin. "Let's get you and this mule to Riverwood."

"But... does Mehra still wish to see this one again?"

Rumarin untied the mule from the tree. "Any reasonable person would not. But of course Mehra still wants to see you. One of the last things she did in Whiterun was visit a Khajiit caravan to see if you were among them." He started leading the mule down the slope towards the road.

J'zargo hesitated, then followed. "But this one was terrible to her. She should want nothing to do with him."

"She shouldn't. But Mehra is the sort of person who forgives whether you like it or not. On the other hand-- Gods damn it, you stupid beast, what did I ever do to you?" Rumarin addressed this last to the mule, which was pulling at the rope and trying to walk in the opposite direction.

" _Jan boka khi panaali_." J'zargo extended his hand for the mule's lead. "Let this one try."

Rumarin handed over the rope. J'zargo held the lead and spoke quietly in his own tongue to the mule. To Rumarin's amazement, the mule followed J'zargo. Though Rumarin didn't want to admit it, he was impressed. If J'zargo were to travel with them, Rumarin might never have to take charge of the stupid mule again.

They walked for some time without speaking. J'zargo kept his eyes downcast and said not a word. Something about his silence and meek demeanor began to annoy Rumarin. It made no sense, but he almost preferred the boastful and insulting J'zargo to this one.

"Are you always going to be this cheerful?" asked Rumarin.

J'zargo gave him an uncomprehending look.

"Well, at least Lydia should like you," said Rumarin. "She prefers the taciturn types."

"Lydia is the woman traveling with you and Mehra?"

"Yes, Mehra's new housecarl. Or bodyguard, as it were." Rumarin didn't trust himself to say more. J'zargo didn't need to know about the enmity between himself and Lydia, and J'zargo certainly didn't need to know that Lydia had ordered Rumarin away.

J'zargo averted his eyes. "Perhaps she will not want this one to follow."

"I imagine she'll be a little put off by the idea at first. But you know how to make this mule behave, so that's in your favor. And you're a mage. Anyone who says there's no value in being able to shoot fire from your hands is lying. And probably jealous."

J'zargo hung his head. "This one is no mage."

"Really now, just because you don't wear fancy robes doesn't mean you can't be a mage."

In a mournful voice J'zargo said, "This one has lost the will to call up fire. This one will never be a mage, never."

"Oh." Rumarin was taken aback. J'zargo no longer able to cast fire spells? No wonder the poor wretch was a shell of himself. Rumarin groped for words but could think of nothing more to say. Nothing that felt right, at least.

Dawn was at hand when they neared Riverwood, and anxiety began gnawing at Rumarin. Suppose by the time they reached Riverwood Lydia had already bought more food and gear? Lydia would not be so pleased with the return of the mule and supplies then, not if they came too late.

The first rays of morning light had broken through the clouds when they came to the stone bridge of Riverwood. They crossed the bridge and followed the dirt road into town, passing the tents and crude shelters. One of the Helgen refugees was cooking a meal over a fire, and the air carried the smell of smoke and seared sausage. It made Rumarin ravenous. He was so tired and hungry from endless walking that he wasn't sure what he wanted more, a big breakfast or a good long sleep.

Ahead Rumarin heard voices arguing, the words becoming more clear and distinct as they neared the Sleeping Giant. The voices came from the porch of the inn, largely obscured at this angle by overgrown shrubs and trees. Rumarin paused to listen. Behind him J'zargo followed his example.

"We have to look for him," said the first voice. It was Mehra. "Rumarin wouldn't just leave like that."

"But it would seem he has," said Lydia. "And I say it's for the best."

"For the best? Best for who?" Mehra's voice became accusing. "Was it you? Did you send him away?"

Rumarin was tempted to stay out of sight a little longer and let the argument play out. There would have been some satisfaction in letting Mehra blow up at Lydia. But that was a bad idea in the long run. Rumarin needed to put himself in Lydia's good graces, and he would be doing himself no favors if he became a source of contention between Lydia and Mehra. Rumarin went forward, motioning for J'zargo to wait with the mule.

Lydia said, "Thane Mehra, listen to me--"

"No. I'm not traveling any further until we-- oh!" Mehra broke off when she saw Rumarin standing on the steps of the porch.

"Hello! Are you looking for me?" asked Rumarin.

Lydia's expression darkened at the sight of him, but Mehra was visibly relieved.

"Yes, I was worried," said Mehra. "When we found your room empty, I thought..."

"Thought I'd run off? Yes, but not for good. I just decided to set out and find the mule."

"Indeed?" said Lydia, giving him an appraising look.

"Did you find him?" asked Mehra.

"Come and see."

They stepped into the road, and then Rumarin gestured grandly at the mule and the Khajiit in dirty robes. J'zargo froze when he saw them and looked poised to flee.

But Mehra wasn't about to let him. With a cry she rushed up and threw her arms around him, dirty robes and all. J'zargo looked startled but did not try to pull away. She told him how happy she was to see him and asked him if he was all right and if he meant to come with them to the mountain, would he please come with them?

Lydia looked less than pleased with this development. In a low voice she asked Rumarin, "Who is he?"

"That's J'zargo," said Rumarin, watching as Mehra chattered on at J'zargo. "They met in Helgen."

"J'zargo? The Khajiit who was with her during the dragon attack?" Lydia gazed at the Khajiit with something approaching respect. "Irileth spoke of him. She said he stood by Mehra and kept attacking the dragon with fire spells."

"He's also good with mules."

Lydia seemed almost amused. "How fortunate. And it seems we're spared the trouble and expense of buying more supplies."

Mehra approached, with J'zargo meekly following. "I'm sorry, I forgot, you haven't met," she said. "Lydia, this is my friend J'zargo."

"Yes, Rumarin was just telling me about him," said Lydia.

"I'd like him to come with us." Mehra's tone was imploring. "He has nowhere else to go."

"Did I mention he's good with mules?" asked Rumarin. As far as he was concerned that was J'zargo's best selling point.

Lydia's expression was unreadable. J'zargo kept his head bowed and said nothing. After a long pause Lydia nodded and said, "Very well, my Thane."

"Thank you. And... I'm sorry for the way I spoke earlier. For thinking you sent Rumarin away."

An uneasy frown creased Lydia's brow. Before she could reply Rumarin cut in with, "It's only natural you thought she did, because everyone usually wants to get rid of me sooner or later. Even I get tired of myself from time to time."

"Rumarin," said Mehra reproachfully, "I wish you wouldn't--"

"I know, I know, but Cyrodiil wasn't built in a day."

"Both of you must have been up all night. Lydia, could we leave a little later for Helgen? So they can rest first?"

To Rumarin's surprise and relief Lydia said she had no objection. She took the mule's lead from J'zargo and told him, "I'll see to feeding and putting him up for a few hours."

J'zargo murmured his thanks, but he seemed at a loss. He looked to Mehra as if waiting to be told what to do. Mehra encouraged him to go into the inn so he could clean up and rest. J'zargo hesitated. When Mehra promised to be along in a moment, he finally went.

Mehra turned back to Rumarin. "You didn't have to do that. Spend the whole night looking for our mule, I mean."

"Well, that ornery beast ran off with my nice new skillet, not to mention my favorite blanket, so naturally I had to find him," said Rumarin. Immediately he felt annoyed with himself. Mehra was trying to thank him and already he was shrugging her off with a joke that came out of him like a reflex. Though he supposed he didn't deserve thanks anyway. Mehra didn't know that his efforts had been motivated by self-interest.

But Mehra didn't seem put off. "I'm glad you did. Especially since you found J'zargo too. I didn't think I'd ever see him again. Thank you."

Rumarin's mind ran through at least dozen possible replies, most of them droll or sardonic, but they all felt wrong. He was still sorting them out when Mehra came near and surprised him with a quick hug. By the time he recovered himself she had already pulled away and followed J'zargo into the inn.

Lydia was still nearby with the mule. When she caught Rumarin's gaze she told him, "You should get some sleep."

"So I take it that means--?"

"You showed initiative. Get some sleep." With that Lydia turned and walked away, leading the mule to the Riverwood stables.

Rumarin supposed he would be elated if exhaustion hadn't finally caught up with him. He could almost hear the pillows and blankets of his unslept-in bed calling to him. As he dragged himself into the Sleeping Giant all he could think about was collapsing into that bed and dozing for a few hours. Maybe a few days if he could get away with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ta'agra translations (from[The Ta'agra Project](http://www.taagra.com/)):**  
>  Thjiz ja'qara: Foolish kitten  
> Na yasti: Not worthy  
> Jan boka khi panaali: He wants to go home
> 
> I created a [site](https://kynesnotes.com/) for posting story notes and screenshots. Not much there yet, but at least you can see how Rumarin and Mehra look in their current outfits.


	9. The Guardian Stones

Mehra was elated when they left Riverwood. The day was a fine one with no clouds to hide either the sun or the intense blue of the sky, but it was more than good weather that put Mehra in high spirits. Rumarin had brought back the lost mule, proving to Lydia that he was a loyal and resourceful companion. But more than that, Rumarin had brought back J'zargo. Mehra was sure she would never see J'zargo again, and she could hardly contain her happiness to have him back.

They set off with a group of Helgen refugees who were anxious to return home and start their lives anew. Most were families with children, but there was also a blacksmith with his apprentice, a robed priestess of Arkay, and a finely-dressed merchant. One family brought everything they owned in a horse-drawn cart, while others pushed wheelbarrows or staggered under the weight of bags and baskets.

Mehra was surprised that Lydia had suggested traveling with the refugees. Yesterday Lydia had been impatient to reach Riverwood, and it was clear that this disorganized band of people would be slow to start and slow to travel. They took forever to break down their tents and pack their things and gather their children. They were further delayed by a family who insisted on waiting for another party to join them from Whiterun. By the time they finally left Riverwood it was well past noon.

But Lydia never lost patience, not even when the horse-drawn cart lost a wheel and brought the journey to a dead stop until the damage was repaired. Lydia's mood was different today, more relaxed and unhurried. She tolerated Rumarin's jokes and was pleased with J'zargo, who dutifully attended to the mule and did everything that was asked of him without delay. Mehra was relieved and gladdened by the harmony between her companions.

The only thing casting a shadow on Mehra's joy was the change she saw in J'zargo. His eyes were always downcast, his tail all but dragged, and he hardly spoke more than two words together. Mehra told herself that was only to be expected. J'zargo must have been wearied by his long journey in the night, and he had suffered terrible shocks and disappointments at the College. But Mehra was sure that with time and patience and understanding he would soon be his old self again.

At first Mehra walked with J'zargo and tried to talk with to him, but it seemed the more she tried to draw him out, the more he retreated into himself. Mehra cast about for a subject that would break through J'zargo's reserve. "Rumarin is glad he doesn't have to worry about the mule anymore," she said. "I don't think any us could get it to behave as well as you do."

J'zargo was silent. At first Mehra thought he hadn't heard her, but at length he said, "This one is good for nothing else."

"That's not true. You can--" Mehra stopped. She had almost said something about magic and remembered just in time that J'zargo couldn't or wouldn't cast fire spells. "You can draw. You made such beautiful drawings and sketches. They were--"

" _Yastozay_ ," said J'zargo, his voice low and bitter.

"Sorry?"

"This one threw them away."

Mehra gasped. "Oh J'zargo, you didn't!"

" _Jat_." Yes. He had.

Mehra found no words. At the College J'zargo had treated his sketching habit like a shameful secret, but Mehra had glimpsed enough of his work to believe he had talent. She remembered whimsical drawings of winged rats and a Khajiit in Arch-mage robes. It pained her to think they were no more. Why would J'zargo destroy them?

"They were useless," said J'zargo as if he had read her thoughts. "Useless like this one."

"No, that's not true--"

" _Yastozay_." J'zargo quickened his pace, leading the mule after him.

Mehra didn't try to catch up with him. It was clear J'zargo had no wish to speak further, and Mehra was shaken by what he had just told her. If she wasn't careful she might make things worse and push him deeper into despair. She needed to think.

Rumarin made it difficult for Mehra to consult her thoughts for long. Yesterday he had been more quiet than usual, distracted by the mule in his care and cowed by the threat of Lydia's wrath. Now that Lydia's mood had changed and J'zargo had taken charge of the mule, Rumarin was in good spirits again, which meant he was in a talking mood. At another time Mehra would have welcomed it, but now she was too distracted for jokes and word games. Her mind continually strayed back to J'zargo.

"My conversation must be even more fatuous than usual," said Rumarin.

"Sorry, what?" Mehra looked at him questioningly.

"Did you hear what I said about teaching my new Dremora butler to fetch my conjured slippers? I know you have a high tolerance for nonsense, but even you should be giving me odd looks by now."

"Oh. No, I'm sorry, I'm-- my mind was elsewhere."

"Maybe your mind has the right idea. I hear Elsweyr is lovely this time of year."

It took Mehra a moment to recognize the pun, and then she sighed and shook her head. Sometimes Rumarin was too absurd.

"But in all seriousness, what is it?" asked Rumarin.

Mehra glanced toward Lydia and J'zargo. Both were walking some distance ahead. Still Mehra dropped her voice for fear of being overheard. "I'm worried about J'zargo."

"J'zargo? Why should--" Rumarin stopped and seemed to have second thoughts on what he had been about to say. In a milder tone he went on, "J'zargo is safe and fed and seems happy taking care of the mule. And Lydia's obviously pleased with him. On the whole I'd say he's not doing too badly."

"But he's not himself. And he... he hardly talks to me."

"He doesn't, hm?" Rumarin's expression hardened. Mehra couldn't tell if his annoyance was directed at her or J'zargo.

"I'm not sure what to do."

"I still think making him explode in a fit of temper would do him good. I'd volunteer, but I'm afraid Lydia would misread the situation and bash me over the head."

"I don't think that would help anyway."

"What do you suppose would?"

"I don't know. Going to the College was everything to him, and it gave him a reason to believe in himself. But now..." Mehra left the thought unfinished. In truth she was glad J'zargo had left the College. Her mind called up the bridge and its crumbling masonry, the black burns scarring the walls, the tapestries full of dust and holes. Winterhold reeked of decay and neglect and apathy, and she hated to think of J'zargo falling to its influence. Yet for a time the school was the center of his world, the thing that fed his hopes and dreams. What could possibly take its place now?

"I won't pretend to know what's going on in J'zargo's head," said Rumarin. "But I'm sure you'll get through to him eventually."

"Really?"

"Yes. Because you're persistent that way, and because it's obvious you're the reason he came back. That has to count for something."

Mehra tried to take hope from Rumarin's words. Certainly there was truth in what he said: whatever J'zargo's state of mind now, he had decided on his own to leave the Khajiit caravan and come back to her.

The sun dipped low in the sky, almost touching the peaks of the mountains. Behind her Mehra heard a mother soothing her crying baby, a man complaining of aching feet, and a child asking when they could stop and eat. Though they had hardly made any progress, they stopped to make camp.

Lydia went to collect firewood, J'zargo began unloading the bags from the mule, and Mehra did her best to help Rumarin set up two tents they had purchased in Whiterun. Although Rumarin had grown up on the road and must have some familiarity with temporary shelters, he was not particularly methodical about pitching tents. J'zargo watched them struggle for a time, then came forward to help. Though J'zargo said next to nothing, he gradually took charge of the operation and soon had the tents ready.

Lydia returned bearing armfuls of wood, and they set about making a fire. Although J'zargo was industrious about stacking the logs, Mehra noticed he made no move to kindle them. In the past it had always pleased J'zargo to put his magic to use even for something as simple as lighting Mehra's lantern. It pained Mehra see him bow his head and step aside while Lydia took care of the rest.

Once the fire was going Rumarin saw to making dinner. One of the Helgen refugees had fished salmon from the river and offered them cheap to anyone who wanted them, and Rumarin had selected the best of his catch. Rumarin made good use of mushrooms and a few herbs Mehra had harvested on the way to Riverwood, and the salmon was seared to perfection. Even Lydia was pleased with the meal and returned for seconds.

Mehra sat with J'zargo while they ate, but J'zargo never acknowledged her. He showed almost no interest in the food he was eating, and Mehra knew he was fond of fish. Now J'zargo only seemed content when he had something to do, some task with which to busy himself. When there was no work to be done he either invented something to do, or he retreated into himself and avoided looking at anyone.

As yet there had been no good opportunity for Mehra to speak with J'zargo alone. There was much she wanted to ask him and much she wished to tell him, things she didn't feel comfortable discussing in front of the others.

Looking around at the tall pines swaying in the wind, the river flashing under the sun, and the distant mountains breaking up the horizon, it occurred to Mehra that she and J'zargo had traveled this way before. They had been fleeing from Helgen then, she and J'zargo and the man Hadvar, a soldier of the Imperial Legion who like them had narrowly escaped death.

Mehra remembered little of either Hadvar or that journey to Riverwood; the unspeakable horrors at Helgen had left her shaken and numb to everything. But she recalled a place not far from where they now sat, a stone platform that was the seat of the Guardian Stones. It was a quiet and peaceful spot that offered a breathtaking view of Lake Ilanalta. It would be a good place to talk to J'zargo alone.

When dinner was over, Lydia went to speak to the refugees camped nearby to see how they were getting on and to ask for news of Helgen. Rumarin lazed in front of the fire, but J'zargo got up and began collecting the dirty dishes. Mehra tried to hide her dismay, because she had meant to ask J'zargo to walk with her. She was beginning to suspect that J'zargo was avoiding her on purpose.

After washing the dishes in the river and putting them away, J'zargo approached the mule. J'zargo usually tended the mule when he was at a loss for anything else to do.

"J'zargo, wait," said Mehra. "Would you walk with me for a while?"

J'zargo hesitated. "Perhaps this one should first see to the mule."

Mehra looked at the mule. It was tethered to a tree and placidly eating grass. "He's fine," she said.

"But... this one should..." J'zargo's face worked as he struggled to say what he should be doing.

"Don't fool yourself," said Rumarin, feeding sticks to the campfire. "She's not letting you get away that easily."

"Please come with me," said Mehra.

J'zargo stared at his feet. He finally gave a little nod.

They followed the bank of the river to the west, walking together in silence. Now and then Mehra stole a glance at him. When she first met J'zargo he had been brimming with confidence, and he entertained no doubts about his destiny as a great mage. Sometimes J'zargo was a little overbearing and patronizing, but from the start Mehra had found his confidence a source of comfort. Now she looked at this meek and downcast Khajiit and saw almost no trace of the J'zargo she knew. Yet he must be in there somewhere. She just had to draw him out somehow.

The path began switchbacking up a mountain. At the first turn they reached an overlook that was the home of the Guardian Stones-- three stones each as tall as a child bearing graven images of the Thief, the Mage, and the Warrior. Beyond was a vista of Lake Ilinalta, blue and tranquil in the light of the setting sun.

For a long time Mehra stared out at the shining lake bordered by lofty pines, and beyond at the rugged line of mountains so tall they broke through the clouds. Though she missed the soft green hills and flower-misted meadows of Cyrodiil, it struck her that Skyrim could also be very beautiful. Even the dragon soul within her must have been moved, because she heard him sigh and say, _Ah! Bo stin ko strunmahhe._

"Do you remember when we were here before?" asked Mehra.

"Yes," said J'zargo. He was not looking at the stones or the lake or the mountains or anything in particular.

"You asked for the Mage's blessing," said Mehra.

"Yes."

Mehra waited, hoping that J'zargo would say something more. When he didn't she continued, "I remember Hadvar asked for the Warrior's blessing. He didn't seem to like the Mage or the Thief very much, but I think all three Guardians were placed together here for a reason. We need them all-- the Warrior's strength, the Thief's cunning, the Mage's wisdom."

J'zargo turned away from the stones and sat on the ground and put his head in his hands. Mehra was a little startled. She didn't know if something she said had hurt him, or if this place reminded him of something he wished to forget.

After a moment Mehra sat next to him and asked, "J'zargo, what is it?"

J'zargo shook his head. "This one never deserved the Mage's blessing."

"But the Mage offers wisdom to anyone who sincerely looks for it."

The answer was low, barely audible. "This one thought he was already wise. But he was only a fool."

Mehra was on the point of contradicting him, of telling him that he should think better of himself, but she stopped. Indrisa had taught her that in order to heal the sick and wounded, you must first understand the nature of their injuries. The wounds J'zargo carried weren't physical, but they were no less real, no less in need of healing.

"Why do you say you're a fool?" asked Mehra.

"This one was always a fool," said J'zargo, wringing his hands. " _Thjiz ja'qara_."

"But why? Because you made mistakes? Everyone does."

"But to be so wrong about everything? To be so cruel?" J'zargo went on in a low broken voice, "This one should have guessed the truth long ago. A wise mage would have known."

"I don't understand."

"When you spoke of magic and told this one which books to read, this one never asked himself why. He never wondered how you came to know these things. He should have seen what it meant, but he was stupid and blind."

Slowly it dawned on Mehra what J'zargo was talking about. She had told him she couldn't cast spells, but she had never explained why, never spoke of the illness that took away both her magic and her future as a healer. Somehow J'zargo had learned the truth, and now it added greatly to his grief.

J'zargo continued, "This one decided you were only pretending to understand magic. That you spoke of such things only to feel important and impress mages like Tirel. But that was a lie this one told himself to hide from the truth. It was this one who pretended to know things, this one who wished to impress others and seem wise." J'zargo's pained expression twisted into one of disgust. "A blind fool. _Wafa vakozay ja'qara!_ "

"J'zargo." Mehra touched his shoulder. He stiffened but didn't move away. "It's not your fault that you didn't know. I should have told you about-- about how I lost my magic."

J'zargo closed his eyes. "A true friend would have seen it."

"But a true friend shares things like that."

"Only to people who deserve to know." He pressed his face into his hands. "This one never deserved your trust. Or the robes of a mage. Or the Mage's blessing. This one was a disgrace to the College."

"No, J'zargo," said Mehra, the words coming out so sharp and fast that J'zargo looked a little startled. She went on more quietly, "It was the College that failed you."

For the first time J'zargo raised his face to look her in the eye, but Mehra saw that he couldn't bring himself to believe what she was saying. Struggling to think of some way to convince him, she suddenly remembered the last letter she received from Tirel. She reached into her bag and withdrew it from a protected inner pocket, then hesitated. It was personal and meant for her, but parts of it also concerned J'zargo. There was a chance that Tirel's words would help J'zargo where she could not.

"I have a letter from Tirel. He mentions you." When Mehra saw J'zargo wince she hastened to add, "He blames himself for what happened that night at the party, not you. But there's more."

J'zargo said nothing, but a puzzled look came into his eyes.

Mehra found the passage she wanted and read aloud. "'It is well that you have departed, and J'zargo. Seclusion and power are ill companions, and this is no place for either of you. I hope you find J'zargo. He is a gifted mage, and his talents are best employed in the wide world, not locked away in a cold vault of stone.'"

In the fading light Mehra watched J'zargo's face for some change. She expected Tirel's words to carry great weight with J'zargo; Tirel was himself a gifted mage and the head of the Aurius Magi. Soon Tirel would be an instructor at the College. If even Tirel could find fault with the school, and if even Tirel thought J'zargo was a gifted mage, surely that would open J'zargo's eyes to the truth about himself and the College.

But J'zargo only stared sadly at the ground. It was as if he had heard nothing that Mehra said.

Mehra tried again to reach him. "I'm glad you left the College. Not the way it happened, but-- I didn't like to think of you staying there. They-- the mages there, they don't take care of the school, and it's so cold and cut off from the rest of the world." When J'zargo's silence persisted she went on, "Winterhold isn't the only place to learn magic. You can still be a mage."

J'zargo slowly shook his head. "This one was a foolish kitten with foolish dreams. _Raj'kono thjiz ja'qara._ "

Mehra stood and turned to face the Guardian stones, gray and silent in the gathering twilight. Within her was a war of emotions-- she was grieved to see J'zargo so hurt and broken, and frustrated that he was not listening to her, and angry that the College had done so much to hurt him, and terrified that there might be no way to heal his soul. She was powerless to help him, and the realization left her trembling.

For the first time Mehra noticed that the stone platform was overgrown with roots and weeds growing between cracks. Tendrils of ivy twisted around the Mage and the Thief. This was a sacred place. Was no one looking after it, caring for it as it deserved? Mehra knelt down and began pulling up every weed and root she saw. None of this would help J'zargo, she knew, but it felt good to do something, to make some small mark on the world.

To her surprise she saw J'zargo rise and join her in pulling away the weeds and overgrowth. He said nothing at all, but he worked with an intense drive and focus. He didn't look happy or even content, but still Mehra hoped it was somehow doing him good. If nothing else they left the place of the Guardian Stones better than they had found it.

They returned to the camp just as the dusk deepened and the stars revealed themselves. Later after her companions had settled in for the night, Mehra pulled out Tirel's letter again and read it by the campfire's light.

_Mehra,_

_I sit at the Hearth writing this in haste lest the courier depart and leave me with long days to wait before another opportunity. I hope you will make allowances for my state, for I have been in sleepless misery since yesterday when you left the College._

_With some difficulty I have pieced together all that happened. Much might now be different if I had spoken with you before the party. But I delayed, fearing that I might disrupt your evening with what I had to say. And, if I am honest, I feared you would decline what I wished to ask, which would ruin my evening._

_Before all else: know that I harbor no ill-will for J'zargo. It was chance, ill luck, or perhaps the machinations of the spirits that infest the College that made J'zargo the unfortunate messenger. The fault and the responsibility are entirely mine._

_I can imagine what you have been told regarding my actions and character. Much of that is likely true from the perspective of the informants. But if you consider the social graces of my colleagues, you may find my reputation magnified out of proportion to its merit. In any case, I would not wish to diminish any past agreeable relationship with false or calculated regrets._

_It is true that there was a wager involving you. In my conceit and apathy, I took up a challenge: to take the alleged Dragonborn to my bed. This occurred shortly after you arrived, when I had seen but moments of you and your companions. At the time no one believed you were the Dragonborn, and many doubted your thaneship. That excuses nothing. Peasant or jarl, the disrespect is the same._

_What you may not know: on the fateful evening of the party, the wager was no more. I had previously conceded such foolishness. Sanriel can confirm this, and Lenari also knows this, though she probably did not then. Lenari may not approve of my character, but she is an honest soul and will not deny the truth._

_I wish you to know when and why I conceded the wager. It was not lack of desire. I have never wanted to take someone into my arms so much as I did then and do now._

_That first time in the greenhouse I began to understand that you were hurting from some loss. I soon guessed the nature and scope of that loss, as well as the other issue that torments you. Only then, when I learned how far you have come and what you have endured, did I begin to understand the quality of this soul which chance or the gods had placed before me. A wager taken up as a bored and callous fool lost all meaning._

_After the second evening in the greenhouse I lay awake most of the night. Many truths descended upon me. That you are all but alone. That others will seek to use you. That you require companions you can trust. And that I care for you. I resolved to tell you these things, to tell you more of my life, and then, with your full understanding, ask if you would permit me to escort you to the great mountain where those wise in the lore of the Dragonborn reside. That was what I wished to say on the evening of the party._

_Since your departure I have become convinced of other truths. That you are indeed the Dragonborn. That you may have been in some danger here. That I am spoiled, lazy, and arrogant. That I have done nothing to improve the life of anyone other than myself. It pains me to admit it, but I am not fit to escort the Dragonborn to the Throat of the World._

_It is well that you have departed, and perhaps also J'zargo. Seclusion and power are ill companions, and this is no place for either of you. I hope you find J'zargo and heal his heart. He is a gifted mage, and his talents are best employed in the wide world, not locked away in a cold vault of stone._

_The courier chafes to be on his way, so I must cease writing. If I can find a way to help you from afar, I will commit myself to doing so. Beyond that, I will pray to the Eight to watch over you and yours._

_Your obedient and affectionate servant,_

_Tirel_

Mehra had not known what to expect when she first opened the letter in Whiterun. On her first reading her feelings had been overwhelming, a mass of sorrow and confusion. She was ashamed that some part of her had still wanted to be hurt and angry at Tirel for taking up the wager at all, notwithstanding his heartfelt apologies and his pain at her sudden flight from the College. Then she wanted to be angry at him _because_ he was so full of remorse and had robbed her of the right to be angry at him-- which was ludicrous, she knew, but there it was.

But the longer Mehra thought on Tirel, the more the stubborn little stab of anger turned inward, pointing to herself. She had taken for granted that J'zargo had told her everything she needed to know about Tirel. Not once did it cross her mind to go to Tirel and ask for an explanation. Not once did she take up a pen to write him, not even when her instincts told her that something was amiss, that no one who truly wished to take advantage of her would have behaved the way Tirel had done. Every opportunity he might have used to win his wager was instead spent talking with her, showing her the beauties of the greenhouse, demonstrating how to make a potion, standing with her against Sergius. All those memories within her seemed to die on the night of the party, and her only thought had been to get as far away from Tirel as she could. So much hurt and misunderstanding could have been avoided if only she had found the courage to confront Tirel and ask for the truth. But she never did.

Mehra read the letter again and let her eyes linger on one particular line. _You are indeed the Dragonborn_. Those words left her puzzled and deeply troubled. Tirel said that no one at the College really believed she was the Dragonborn. Mehra didn't believe it herself and had every hope that the Greybeards would tell her it was all a mistake. What had convinced Tirel that she was the Dragonborn?

That night Mehra's sleep was broken by dark and fitful dreams. She saw the Guardian Stones shift and change before her eyes; the Thief turned into Rumarin, the Mage became J'zargo, and the Warrior was Lydia. The ground beneath J'zargo's feet crumbled away, and Mehra grabbed for his hand to pull him to safety, but she was too late-- he fell forever into darkness. Rumarin was held fast by tendrils of ivy and couldn't break free of their choking hold, and Lydia was pulling Mehra away and telling her, "We must go on, my Thane." The dream became distorted and confused, and Mehra woke with a start to find Lydia shaking her shoulder and telling her it was time to go.

* * *

Excitement stirred through the refugees when they finally glimpsed Helgen, the walled city awaiting them from the top of a rise. All morning the travelers had toiled their way up a winding mountain path with their wheelbarrows and baskets and other burdens until their limbs were sore and their energy nearly exhausted. But now at last they were home.

Mehra had known they would have to pass through Helgen, but until this moment she had largely kept it out of her thoughts. Yesterday she could almost pretend Helgen was hundreds of miles away. But now that very place stood before her, a reality that could no longer be ignored. Every step that brought her closer to the city gates filled her with growing dread.

From time to time Mehra glanced at her companions, but she saw no fear or dismay in them. Rumarin and Lydia seemed in good spirits. J'zargo calmly led the mule as if returning to the city where he had nearly perished was a matter of complete indifference to him.

"I can see Helgen Keep," said Lydia, gazing with pride at the flag of the Empire waving from the highest tower. "Irileth said it was practically untouched by the dragon attack."

"I hope the inn survived as well," said Rumarin.

Mehra gave all her attention to putting one foot in front of the other. A happy cry made her look up, and she watched as the first group of refugees passed through the gates. None of them trembled or drew back in fear; in fact they seemed glad to be home. I can do this, Mehra told herself. It's different this time. They're rebuilding Helgen just like the Empire rebuilt Kvatch. I'm free, my hands aren't bound, I'm not about to be condemned to-- to--

The sight of the Imperial soldiers at the gate drove every rational thought from Mehra's head. She shrank back and stood pale and shaking.

"Thane Mehra, what is it?" asked Lydia, her expression bewildered.

"I... I..." Mehra couldn't speak. Her throat had dried up.

"Is it another dragon?" asked Rumarin, casting a nervous glance at the sky.

Mehra shook her head mutely. Rumarin looked relieved.

Lydia stared at him. "Why would you ask her that when you can see for yourself that the skies are clear and the city hasn't raised the alarm?"

"Let's just say Mehra is better at the art of dragon detection than some."

Lydia frowned and turned back to Mehra. "Thane Mehra, we must go in."

Mehra knew they must, but the rational part of her mind that knew and accepted this was no match against the terrified, quaking part that remembered the horrors of this place. That part of her called up every memory of Helgen she had tried to forget. She saw the Stormcloak man who had died, his head severed from his body with one merciless stroke of an axe. She felt herself pushed onto the chopping block, wet with warm blood, and though she would not look into the basket that awaited her head, she could feel the eyes of the dead man staring up at her. The headsman hefted the axe that dripped blood. She braced herself for the blow that would end her life.

"Thane Mehra," said Lydia, an edge of impatience in her voice. "Helgen is safe now. There's no danger here."

"Hold on," said Rumarin. He motioned Lydia aside and spoke to her quietly, too low for Mehra to catch more than a word or two-- something about a dragon.

Dragon. Mehra's heart galloped at the memory of terrible black wings and terrible eyes that glowed like the heart of a furnace, of terrible jaws opening wide to pour fire and death on Helgen.

She felt someone come to her side and take her hand, calling her back to the present moment. It was J'zargo.

"I'm afraid to go in," Mehra told him, forcing the words out.

"J'zargo is here. J'zargo will go with you." The press of his hand told her that he would not abandon her.

Images of Helgen still flooded through Mehra, but now she brought into focus the memory of J'zargo finding her and pulling her from danger, away from the jaws of the dragon and the blasts of fire and the shrieks of the dying. With J'zargo she had passed through Helgen once before. With J'zargo she could pass through Helgen again.

Holding tight to J'zargo's hand, Mehra steadied herself and began taking the first steps through the gates of Helgen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gary wrote the letter from Tirel.


	10. A Letter from Helgen

Dear Tirel,

I hardly know where to begin. That night when J'zargo told me of the wager, I believed him completely. I never stopped to think that he might be mistaken, or that he might not know all the facts. I couldn't think beyond my own hurt, and I held onto it long after my instincts started telling me that something wasn't right.

I ignored what my instincts were telling me about you. What I did instead goes against everything Indrisa taught me. She told me that being a healer isn't easy, that it forces you to make hard choices. Sometimes your patient fights your efforts to heal them. Sometimes you help someone who can never repay you. Sometimes people curse you for healing someone who seems undeserving of aid. But a healer must find the courage to do what is right and help those in need. I didn't even have the courage to go to you and ask for the truth.

I can tell myself that it wasn't all my fault, that it was only natural to react as I did, that I had to go after J'zargo before something happened to him. But then I remember that when Lenari placed your note in my hands, I hid it away unread. That I did everything I could to avoid seeing you that night and the following morning. That I never gave any thought to writing you, not even when I started questioning myself.

The truth is I wanted to believe the worst, especially after I left Winterhold. As long as I remained convinced that I was nothing more than a toy to you, I had no reason to question my own behavior, no reason to believe that my leaving without so much as a parting word would hurt you. For that I am ashamed and sorry.

So much has happened that I'm not sure where to begin. I suppose it's best to start with the day I left Winterhold to find J'zargo. The innkeeper said that J'zargo went to Dawnstar, possibly to join a Khajiit caravan, and I guessed he took the most direct way through the mountain pass. I asked Rumarin to come with me, and I'm grateful that he did. It was a hard journey, and if I'd gone alone I would have frozen to death in the snow storm. Rumarin kept us both alive by digging out a shelter in the snow.

We found J'zargo with a Khajiit caravan in Dawnstar, but he was changed. He would hardly speak to me, and he kept berating himself in the language of his people. He was full of sorrow over what he sees as terrible failures and unforgivable mistakes. Nothing I said gave him any comfort. He told me I was better off without him. When J'zargo departed with the caravan I grieved and thought I'd lost him forever.

Something must have changed J'zargo's mind, because later he left the caravan to find us. I'm overjoyed to say he's traveling with me now, but he still blames himself for everything that went wrong. I told him that you said he's a gifted mage and that the College was no place for him, but I'm not sure he's ready to believe that. I hope someday he will.

But on that day in Dawnstar, I didn't know J'zargo would change his mind. I also didn't know if I would have Rumarin with me for much longer. Rumarin was perfectly willing to come with me as far as Whiterun, but he made no promise of coming any further. I feared we would soon part ways and I would face the long journey to High Hrothgar alone.

I was also afraid to face Jarl Balgruuf. I thought he would be displeased with me for going to Winterhold instead of doing what he asked and seeing the Greybeards on their mountain. But he was patient and understanding. He even expressed regret and said he should have recognized that I needed more support.

That's how I came to have Lydia as a companion. Lydia is a soldier of Whiterun, and I was very surprised and relieved when Jarl Balgruuf asked her to be my housecarl and guide. Lydia and I have only been together a few days, and I'm still getting to know her, but she seems very brave and takes her duties very seriously.

I was terrified of climbing the mountain alone, and now I have not one but three companions making the journey with me. I'm beyond happy to be with J'zargo again, I'm glad for Rumarin's company, and Lydia is a reassuring presence.

Now I write you from Helgen. It feels wrong to speak badly of a town that suffered so much and is slowly piecing itself back together, but I didn't want to come here. For me Helgen holds memories I'd like to forget. It would have been difficult to pass through the gates if J'zargo hadn't been there to steady me. He's hardly left my side since we arrived.

All the same, I'm glad Helgen is being restored. More and more people are coming back with their families to rebuild their homes and their lives. Most of them are starting from almost nothing, and I don't think there's a one who hasn't lost someone dear to them. Yet they're looking to the future with hope in spite of everything they suffered. But I fear there's one thing that could break their spirits, and that's the Thalmor.

It's odd, but I gave little thought to Thalmor Justiciars when I was growing up. I never knew a time when they weren't a common sight in Cyrodiil. We all heard whispers about the terrible things they do to Talos worshipers, but the Justiciars in Kvatch seemed apathetic about enforcing the law. Some were even friendly, and though my father warned me never to be taken in by that, I sometimes wondered if the rumors were exaggerated.

But in Helgen it's different. The Thalmor here are relentless in their search for Talos worshipers, questioning and interrogating nearly everyone. When they hear an answer they don't like, or when someone resists having their belongings searched for amulets of Talos, they threaten to take the person to Solitude for judgment. There are many Imperial soldiers here, but they look the other away and never interfere.

Is this part of why Jarl Balgruuf keeps Whiterun neutral? I saw no Justiciars there, and I know of no other place where Talos is revered so openly. Whiterun even has a statue of Talos. Every day a priest stands before that statue and shouts to the people, telling them not to forsake Talos. If Whiterun were to side with the Empire in this war, would that mean opening the doors to the Thalmor? Would the statue be destroyed, the priest and his followers silenced or worse?

These are questions I'd like to ask Lydia, but there hasn't been a good opportunity. I do think it's hard for her to see the people of Helgen treated like this. Her mood has been very dark since we came here, and she wants to leave at first light tomorrow.

I did venture to ask Lydia about High Hrothgar and the Greybeards, and about the legend of the Dragonborn. She told me only that the people of Skyrim regard High Hrothgar as a sacred place, that the Greybeards study the Way of the Voice, and that the Dragonborn is a dragonslayer prophesied to save Skyrim from a great doom. I can tell Lydia doesn't believe I'm the Dragonborn. I don't believe I am either. When the black dragon razed Helgen, I did nothing. When another dragon threatened Whiterun, again I did nothing. The people of Skyrim need a brave warrior and a great leader to see them through the dragon crisis, and I'm neither.

The only thing I can't explain to myself is the dragon spirit. How and why did he come to be trapped within me? The soldiers of Whiterun said I took the dying dragon's soul, but I never meant to. It happened against my will-- our will. Neither of us wanted it. Why did it happen?

There's something more I haven't told you. Before I left Winterhold, Sergius summoned me. He told me that he knew a way to remove the dragon soul, that he could begin right away if I wished. When I said I hadn't the coin to pay him, he assured me it didn't matter. The academic value would be payment enough.

By this time Lenari had given me your note, but I wouldn't read it until much later. My mind was in chaos then, but if I had read your note then as I should have done... as you said, much might now be different. At the very least I would have heeded your warning about going to Sergius alone.

Though I badly wanted the dragon soul freed from my mind, I hesitated to undergo whatever Sergius had in mind. I can't tell you exactly what struck me as wrong, but even then I found myself remembering what happened when we met Sergius together. I was afraid to speak to him, and it seemed to me that you were on your guard. That you were trying to shield me from him. I didn't know what danger you suspected, but it stayed in my mind, and it was part of what made me tell Sergius I needed time to think about his offer.

At first Sergius seemed to understand, but then he started talking about J'zargo. He told me that J'zargo was in danger of losing his standing at the College. J'zargo might even be expelled for tampering with the glowing wells and putting the school in danger. Then Sergius said he could use his influence to protect J'zargo. His true meaning was only too plain: if I didn't let him have the dragon soul, J'zargo would have no future at the College. I tried to find J'zargo after that, but he had already left Winterhold, and I resolved to go after him.

Sergius told me something more. A mortal body is meant to carry only one soul, he said. The longer the dragon soul stays inside me, the greater the chance that he will try to overpower my soul. Or that in time our souls will merge and create someone new. I don't know if any of this is true. But I still think about it sometimes and worry.

I don't know what to expect when we reach High Hrothgar, but Lydia says the Greybeards are wise in dragon lore. Perhaps they can tell me why the dragon's soul was placed inside me, and more importantly how to free him. No one deserves to have their soul trapped like this. No one deserves to have their body made a prison for another's soul. I can't bring myself to believe that the Gods would ordain such a thing, or that they would choose for Skyrim's champion someone who is powerless to do anything to save this land from dragons and war. I can only hope that soon the true Dragonborn will come forward.

We leave for Ivarstead in the morning, just as soon as we can all be ready. Lydia said Ivarstead is a small lonely village, and it has few visitors outside of pilgrims journeying to High Hrothgar. But it's peaceful and beautiful, and I look forward to seeing it. Above all I hope to hear from you again, and I'll write again when we reach Ivarstead.

No, I can't end this letter here. I must add something more. You said you've done nothing to improve the life of anyone other than yourself, but that isn't so. When I came to the College, I believed that without my magic I would never be a healer again, that I would never be able help people in a way that matters. I was blind to other ways that might still be open to me. When I remember how you showed me how to make a potion, or how you explained that a filled soul gem supplies the magicka for enchanting, I see now that you were trying to open my eyes to other possibilities.

Later I drew on those lessons, yours and the ones Indrisa had long tried to teach me. With an alchemist's help I made a potion of snowberries and dragon's tongue flowers for a woman dying of brain fever. When I left Whiterun she was still very sick, but the temple healers no longer feared for her life. With time and care she should recover. What I'm trying to tell you is that if it wasn't for what you showed me in the greenhouse, I might have done nothing. I would have thought only of my lost magic and considered no other ways to help the sick woman.

You said you are not fit to escort the Dragonborn to the Throat of the World. But that isn't true either. I don't believe I'm the Dragonborn. I feel sure this must be a terrible mistake that only the Greybeards can put right. But I do believe that if I had done right by you, if I had sought the truth and given you a chance to tell what really happened, I would have accepted your offer to escort me to High Hrothgar. It would have been a great relief to me and I would have welcomed your company.

It feels empty to say things like that now, because that's not what happened. I can tell myself things might have been different, but in the end I did nothing to deserve your company to High Hrothgar.

Maybe in one sense it was for the best. I know you were looking forward to becoming an instructor. You said you wanted to make a difference at the College and help people learn that there is so much more to magic than simply mastering a set of spells. It would have weighed on me if coming with me to High Hrothgar would have endangered that future for you. I know you'll be a good teacher, and I hope you change the College for the better. Please take care and I'll write again as soon as I can.

Sincerely yours,

Mehra


	11. Ivarstead

Lydia led the way down the road through the forest, breathing deeply of the fine air and listening to the calls of songbirds. She was glad to leave behind the rocky segment that rose and fell steeply with the foothills, winding through barren gorges that lay between Helgen and the Rift. After such a tedious journey she could not fail to appreciate the beauty of the Rift. This time of year the leaves of the white aspens blazed in reds and golds, and in the light of the setting sun they glowed like fire.

"I didn't know Skyrim had trees like this," said Mehra, lifting her face to gaze at the dazzling canopy above them. "It's wonderful."

"Yes, people who can afford to often visit the Rift this time of year," said Lydia. "The city of Riften has many festivals."

J'zargo also gazed at the trees as though struck by their beauty, but said nothing as he led the mule.

"I'll never understand why this part of Skyrim isn't more settled," said Rumarin. "Do people who live in places like Dawnstar and Windhelm enjoy spending three quarters of the year freezing their leeks off?"

The question set Lydia's teeth on edge. Rumarin continually made bad jokes and disparaging remarks about Skyrim and its people. Not for the first time Lydia wondered what Mehra saw in the Altmer, why she had insisted on bringing him. He was a good cook, but that one virtue wasn't enough to make up for his chatter and his shirking. Rumarin usually put off his tasks until J'zargo did them.

"Will we reach Ivarstead soon?" asked Mehra.

"Not long now," said Lydia. The sun was already slipping out of sight into a golden haze. "We'll reach Ivarstead after nightfall."

They walked on, saying little as the last of the daylight faded. Gradually the twilight deepened into night, and the sky became brilliant with stars. The gloom of the forest was brightened by torchbugs that flashed like tiny yellow magelights.

After another hour of walking they spotted steady points of light in the distance. At first Lydia thought they must be the lights of Ivarstead, but as they drew nearer they instead saw the torches and cooking fires of campsites.

"All those tents," said Mehra. "Why are so many people camped here?"

"It may be Stormcloaks," said Lydia. It was the only explanation that made sense. The Rift belonged to Jarl Ulfric. But why would Stormcloaks be amassing their forces at Ivarstead? Were they planning to march on Helgen? And what would happen if the soldiers took notice of Lydia and her companions? Probably nothing. Whiterun wasn't yet at war with the Stormcloaks. Still Lydia felt it was best to be cautious.

"If we're stopped, let me do the talking," said Lydia. She gave Rumarin a pointed look. "That goes double for you."

"What, you don't trust me to be on my best behavior with Stormcloaks about?" asked Rumarin in a tone of pretended hurt.

Lydia knew that answering such a question would only encourage Rumarin into more banter. "Not a word," she snapped. Rumarin fell silent.

As they neared the tents Lydia was surprised to hear strains of music and laughter. The people moving among the campsites were not soldiers after all-- they were farmers, merchants, priests, and families with children. Several youngsters ran circles around the campfires. Bards strummed lutes, pounded drums, sounded flutes, and lifted their voices in a rousing song about mighty heroes of old.

J'zargo and Rumarin seemed bemused by these sights. Mehra took it all in with wide-eyed astonishment. "Is it a festival?" she asked Lydia. "Like the ones in Riften?"

"It would seem so," said Lydia slowly. "But I've never known Ivarstead to hold festivals."

Lydia paused to ask a man about the goings on. The red-faced man reeked of ale. "Why," he said in a bellowing voice, "we've all come to see the Dragonborn."

"The Dragonborn?"

"He's sure to come any day now. Yes, very soon, and then we'll ask for his blessing."

"The Dragonborn may be a woman," said Lydia, unable to hide her annoyance.

The man laughed. "So long as she's a true daughter of Skyrim. But there I think you're wrong."

"Why?"

"Because the Dragonborn can be none other than Jarl Ulfric. Gods bless the true High King of Skyrim, Talos reborn!" He raised his ale bottle in salute and staggered away, breaking into a song. _"All hail to Ulfric, you are the High King! In your great honor we drink and we sing..."_

Lydia stared after him. Many people revered Ulfric Stormcloak and looked to him to save Skyrim from Thalmor persecution, but still it chilled her to hear such talk. It made no difference that the man had murdered the High King; if anything some people seemed to love him all the more for it.

There was no point in reflecting on such things. Lydia stirred herself and led her companions on to Ivarstead. The lights of the town beckoned from the other side of a bridge that stretched over the moonlit waters of a stream.

Lydia remembered Ivarstead as a tiny, quiet village nestled in the shadow of the great mountain. The town that met her eyes was nothing like the one in her memory. Colorful lanterns and dancing magelights illuminated dirt roads lined with booths and stalls advertising all manner of food, souvenirs, and entertainment. Crowds of people gathered around vendors selling dragon jerky, dragon chops, and freshly steamed dragon dumplings. Others tried their luck at booths offering games of chance, where the spin of a wheel or the cast of a die might win them a carved sword-wielding figure or a dragon toy.

Mehra stared at the offerings of dragon jerky. "They can't really mean it came from dragons?"

"You already know my thoughts on meat of questionable origins," said Rumarin.

"Skeevers?"

"Or rats," said Rumarin cheerfully.

They were distracted by a high voice crying, "Oh no, the dragons have returned! Help, help, we're all doomed!" The plea came from a puppet theater, where little puppet people shrieked and scuttled from a rampaging puppet dragon.

"I'll save you!" A puppet wearing a horned helmet popped into view and took a club to the dragon, beating it over the head until it lay twitching. "Bad dragon! Bad, wicked, naughty dragon! Now I'll eat your soul!"

"Hurray, the Dragonborn has saved us!" cheered the puppet villagers.

Lydia watched in horrified silence. Ivarstead was the gateway to High Hrothgar, one of Skyrim's most sacred places. Dragons were a real and terrible threat that could lay waste to a village like Ivarstead, leaving nothing but charred ruins. How could these people make light of such things? How could they reduce the dragon crisis and the long-awaited Dragonborn into the lowest forms of entertainment?

"Well done, Dragonborn," squeaked a puppet wearing a paper crown. "I name you Thane of Whiterun!"

Rumarin laughed, J'zargo stared, and Mehra looked mortified. Lydia felt her face grow hot with indignation. This was what people believed happened in Whiterun? That the Dragonborn appeared and beat the dragon into submission? But it was a lie. The dragon was defeated by brave soldiers who laid down their lives for Whiterun. It was they who deserved credit and remembrance. This display was an insult to their memory.

"Let's go," said Lydia, turning to lead them to the inn.

"Don't you want to see more of the sights first?" asked Rumarin, waving his arms at the colorful lanterns, painted signs, and booths overflowing with plush dragon toys. "I thought this much color and entertainment was illegal in Skyrim."

Lydia whirled on him. "Shut up. I've had enough of your smartass remarks about my homeland."

Rumarin opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He fidgeted and avoided meeting Lydia's eye. "Perhaps I'll mosey for a while," he said. "I'll meet you all back at the inn."

Mehra watched him disappear into the crowd. "I don't think he always means for the things he says to-- to come out the way they do."

"My Thane," said Lydia coldly, "Rumarin isn't a child. He's more than capable of watching his mouth and making his own apologies for whatever comes out of it."

"I know," said Mehra, her eyes downcast.

"Should this one find the stables?" asked J'zargo, indicating the mule he was leading by a rope.

"Yes, thank you J'zargo," said Lydia. At least J'zargo was a steady and hardworking companion. He always kept his mind on his duties and never spoke unless there was something worth saying.

J'zargo departed with the mule, and Lydia approached the inn with Mehra close behind. Vilemyr Inn was a tired old building, but the orange lanterns lighting the porch gave it a cheerful aspect.

The inn was thronged with travelers and rang with shouts and bard song. Lydia threaded her way past crowded tables, Mehra at her heels. They passed several robed pilgrims fiercely debating the exact number of steps to High Hrothgar, and a warrior almost sloshed ale on them while bellowing out the song of the Dragonborn.

When Lydia asked the innkeeper if they could rent rooms for the night, the man shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Truly I am, but I've no rooms to spare."

"What of other places in Ivarstead?"

"You might try the farmhouses, but I expect many of them have taken lodgers already. In all my years I've never seen such a flood of travelers. Everyone is hoping to see the Dragonborn." With a wry look the innkeeper added, "Or else they hope to be Dragonborn themselves."

"Do they really? Hope to be the Dragonborn, I mean?" asked Mehra. She seemed taken aback by the very idea.

"Of course. Ever since the Greybeards shouted for the Dragonborn, warriors have been coming from all over Skyrim to answer the call. But the Greybeards are turning them all away." The man glanced at Lydia's armor and added, "Begging your pardon if you came to see the Greybeards, but it's true."

Once again Lydia wondered why Jarl Balgruuf thought a Breton girl from Cyrodiil could be the Dragonborn of legend. Lydia was certain the Greybeards would take one look at Mehra and send her away at once. The entire trip was a waste of time and money, and the sooner they got it over with, the better. Lydia was determined to return to Whiterun before the Stormcloaks brought war to the hold.

Mehra asked Lydia, "Should we find a place to set up camp?" Though she spoke lightly, Lydia saw the disappointment in her eyes. Lydia herself had been looking forward to sleeping in a real bed, and Mehra was even more attached to the comforts of town life.

"Let's eat first," said Lydia. "Then we can decide what to do next."

They ended up at a table with another group of travelers, mostly pilgrims who had come to pray at the shrines.

"We go to High Hrothgar tomorrow," said the oldest robed pilgrim, a woman with long white hair and eyes that squinted to see more clearly. "Though in truth it's the wayshrines that brought us here."

"Sorry, but what are the wayshrines?" asked Mehra.

"You don't know of them? They tell the history of High Hrothgar and of humanity. They speak of Kyne and how she breathed life into our ancestors."

"Kyne?" Mehra looked confused for a moment. "Oh, Kynareth?"

The travelers looked disapprovingly at her, and Lydia winced inside. Though many people of Skyrim accepted Kynareth as another name for Kyne, others rejected Kynareth as a Cyrodilic corruption of the Sky Goddess.

"Not everyone believes Kyne and Kynareth are the same," Lydia told Mehra. "Even among those who do, many prefer the name Kyne."

"Kynareth is a pale shadow of the truth," said one of the pilgrims. In spite of his beard he seemed very young, almost a boy.

"Oh," said Mehra, her face flushing. "I didn't know."

"Kyne gave us life," the old woman went on. "And Kyne gave us the gift of the Thu'um so that we might free ourselves from the dragons who enslaved us many years ago. Tomorrow we climb the Seven Thousand Steps to offer our prayers to Kyne. Now that the dragons have come back, we need her guidance more than ever."

"Especially since the Dragonborn isn't coming forward to do anything about the dragons," muttered the young man.

"Kyne will send the Dragonborn to us," said the old woman.

Lydia said nothing, not because the conversation held no interest for her but because she saw no benefit in saying something that might spark an argument. Lydia believed in the legend of the Dragonborn, but she believed more strongly in the strength of soldiers and warriors who had already tested their courage against dragons. It was foolish to wait on a hero who might or might not come forward.

Mehra suddenly straightened and waved to someone. Lydia followed her gaze and saw J'zargo hurrying towards them.

"What is it?" asked Lydia.

J'zargo caught his breath. "Rumarin was attacked."

"What?" Mehra got to her feet at once. "Is he all right? Where is he?"

"Who attacked him?" asked Lydia.

"Probably thieves," said one of the pilgrims. "Ivarstead is thick with them now."

"The ones who attacked him fled," said J'zargo. "A farming family took him into their house and he is there now."

They followed J'zargo out of the inn and through the streets, pursued by the shouts of vendors urging them to buy amulets carved from dragon's teeth, helms fitted with dragon's horns, and potions mixed with dragon's blood. Lydia would have been angry at them for passing off useless trinkets as dragon artifacts, but just now her fury was bent on Rumarin. They had barely arrived in Ivarstead and already Rumarin had found trouble.

J'zargo led them to an old farmhouse that stood at the edge of town, where the number of bright lanterns and gaudy merchant stalls dwindled. They were admitted into the house by a woman of perhaps eighteen wearing a dress of plain undyed linen.

"Your friend is there," said the girl, pointing to the open doorway of a small bedroom. "My mother is seeing to him now."

They found Rumarin on a bed that was not quite long enough for him. His face was badly bruised, one hand was cut and bleeding from the knuckles, and he held a bloody rag to the side of his head. He flinched away from a matronly woman who was trying to press a drink on him.

"You'll feel better once you drink this." She held up a mug full of something that Rumarin shrank from.

"No thank you, I'm deathly allergic to... whatever that is," said Rumarin. Though his voice came out ragged, Lydia decided he must not be too badly hurt if he was still trying to make jokes.

"Nonsense! It's a dragon tonic and it will do you good. The man who sold it said it will cure anything that ails you."

"Please, let me," said Mehra, going to the woman and taking the mug. "We can take it from here. Thank you so much for your help."

"Of course, dear. I'll just be outside you need me. And see that he drinks it all!" With that the woman bustled out of the room.

"You're not going to make me drink that, are you?" asked Rumarin, looking and sounding pathetic.

"Rumarin, what happened to you?" Mehra handed the mug to J'zargo. The Khajiit sniffed at the drink; his tail frizzed and his face twisted into a grimace as he set the mug aside.

"I was attacked."

Lydia frowned. "Obviously, but who attacked you? And why?"

Rumarin hesitated. "Big Nord fellow. There was another-- maybe two others? I didn't see their faces." He started to feel his swollen eye, then dropped his hand when Mehra admonished him not to touch it.

"J'zargo, could you bring some clean water?" asked Mehra. J'zargo nodded and went away at once.

"You still haven't answered the why," said Lydia. "Did you insult this man?"

"Not in the least," said Rumarin.

"Did you do something else to make him angry?"

"No, I--"

"That can wait," said Mehra, speaking with an authority that took Lydia by surprise. Mehra then had Rumarin pull the rag away so she could examine his head wound.

"How does your head feel?" asked Mehra, taking a potion from her bag and opening it.

"Like my brain is trying to burst out of my skull," said Rumarin. He accepted the potion and started to drink it.

J'zargo returned with a bowl of water. Mehra soaked a cloth in it and began cleaning the blood and dirt from Rumarin's wounds. Occasionally Rumarin flinched, but otherwise he submitted quietly to her ministrations. All the while J'zargo stayed close and did whatever Mehra asked of him. From her bag he fetched bandages and herbs and a small mortar and pestle, and under Mehra's direction he ground the herbs to make a poultice for Rumarin's swollen eye.

As she worked Mehra asked Rumarin more questions. Did he feel dizzy or sick? Was his vision blurry or was he seeing double? Rumarin assured her that aside from his head wanting to burst, everything was working as normal. "Though I admit I use the term loosely," he added.

Lydia had known that Mehra was drawn to the healing arts, but until now she believed it was something that Mehra merely dabbled in. Many a villager claimed to have special knowledge of homemade tonics and remedies that would cure almost anything. But Mehra attended Rumarin with the calm air of someone who was used to treating wounds. Lydia found herself wondering how Mehra had acquired this experience. Mehra seemed rather young to be a healer. If she was an apprentice, where was her master? Why had she left her livelihood behind and come to Skyrim alone?

When Mehra was done bandaging Rumarin's wounds, Lydia brought her mind back to the questions she had for him. "Why were you attacked?"

"They robbed me," said Rumarin in a heavy tone. "I had a run of luck with one of the games. Won enough money to buy a few nights at a good inn. They took it all."

Lydia studied him. Though it was difficult to read Rumarin's face, bruised and half-bandaged as it was, there was something uneasy in his manner. She was sure he was holding something back.

"How did it happen?" asked Lydia.

"A man came up and asked me to help him drag his drunken friend back to the inn."

"Which you agreed to do?"

"Yes. He said he could make it worth my while. He led me into a little alley, and that's when he jumped me, him and his accomplices. One of them hit me hard and I blacked out."

"I see." Lydia was still unsatisfied. There was a lie here somewhere, or else a truth held back. But she had no solid foundation for what her instincts were telling her.

Rumarin covered his face with his hands. "Gods, it's like dozens of little hammers are whacking my skull."

"I'm sorry," said Mehra. "I had a spell for that once, but... that's not helpful now. Maybe there's an herbal tea I could make instead." She began looking through one of her pouches.

"Was it an illusion spell?" asked J'zargo.

"Yes," said Mehra. "It's a way of using a calm spell to help people manage pain."

J'zargo looked as if he was about to speak, then stopped and lowered his eyes.

"You work magic?" asked Lydia, looking at Mehra in surprise. She had never seen Mehra cast a single spell.

Mehra folded her hands and hesitated. "It's a long story. But no. I can't." She turned her gaze back to J'zargo. "Were you going to say something?"

J'zargo kept his eyes on the floor. "It is nothing."

"Please tell me."

"It is only... this one remembers studying illusion magic, spells of calming. But he never mastered such spells."

"There wouldn't be any harm in trying one now. Won't you try?" Mehra quickly added, "If Rumarin doesn't mind, I mean."

"As long as he doesn't liquify my brain." Rumarin's face spasmed with pain. "Then again, I might bless him if he did."

"I'll help you if you're willing to try," said Mehra, touching J'zargo's arm.

J'zargo looked at her. There was a struggle in his face. Then he dropped his eyes and shook his head. "This one cannot. This one will only fail."

The hopeful light went out of Mehra's eyes like a candle blown out.

By now Lydia felt herself an outsider. Clearly much had happened between these companions in the brief time they knew each other, and Lydia lacked the context to grasp all that the conversation implied. She knew J'zargo had come to Skyrim to study magic at the College of Winterhold. She also knew that something had happened that compelled J'zargo to leave the school and follow Mehra about like a shadow. But Lydia had avoided prying into J'zargo's personal affairs, and no one had volunteered details. But one thing was plain: J'zargo had magical ability, or at least Mehra believed he did, and now he was afraid to use it.

"What will be the consequences if you fail?" asked Lydia.

"The worst that will happen is that the spell won't work," said Mehra.

"Then there's no sense in hesitating," Lydia told J'zargo. "If you succeed, you'll do some good. If you fail, no one is the worse for it."

J'zargo made no reply. He stared down at his hands with an odd look, as if he were seeing them for the first time in his life.

"J'zargo." This time it was Rumarin who spoke, his voice thick with misery. "My head feels like it'll explode. Give it a try, will you?"

J'zargo bowed his head and made no sign that he had heard. After a long silence his expression hardened with decision. "What must this one do?" he asked.

"It's very much like a normal calm spell," said Mehra. "It only takes a small shift in your thoughts, and it's easier when the person wants your spell to work-- they won't be resisting the illusion."

After Mehra explained what to do, she placed her hand over J'zargo's and guided him through the procedure, the Khajiit's fingertips showing the faintest glow of magicka. After a moment J'zargo drew his hand away.

Rumarin said nothing. When Mehra asked Rumarin if he felt any better, he started as if from a doze.

"What did you say?" asked Rumarin.

"I asked if your head felt any better."

"Mine's a second-rate head," said Rumarin, the words slurred. He laid back down on the pillow and mumbled something incoherent. Soon his breathing fell into the steady rhythm of sleep.

"J'zargo, you did it." Mehra spoke low so as not to awaken Rumarin, but she looked up at J'zargo with joy and pride.

J'zargo furrowed his brow as he watched the sleeping form of Rumarin. "This one is not sure. Perhaps he was already falling asleep."

"I doubt that," said Lydia. "In any case you made the effort, and the outcome was good."

J'zargo made another study of his hands, his expression one of doubt. He shook his head and began helping Mehra put away her supplies.

Later that night Lydia and Mehra spread their bedrolls in the main room near the warmth of the hearth. The family who lived in the house had invited them to stay the night. Lydia had pressed them to accept payment for their hospitality. Though the wife made mild protests and said it was only right to help those in need, Lydia could tell they were glad of the septims.

The couple and their daughter withdrew into another room. J'zargo had his bedroll in the small room with Rumarin, which left Lydia and Mehra alone in the common room.

"I'm relieved it wasn't worse," said Mehra as she arranged her bedroll to her liking. "The attack, I mean. He'll be all right now, but I don't think we should go up the mountain tomorrow. He needs time to heal."

Lydia frowned to herself. She had not looked forward to this conversation, but it was better not to put it off.

"Thane Mehra, it's best if you and I go alone."

Mehra's face clouded. "You mean leave J'zargo and Rumarin behind?"

"Now that we're here, we should speak with the Greybeards as soon as possible. This is what we were sent to do."

"Yes, but wouldn't Jarl Balgruuf understand if we needed to delay a little longer?"

"He would, but that's not the only reason. The journey won't be easy, and the Greybeards may not let us stay long in their monastery. J'zargo and Rumarin will be much more comfortable waiting for us here in town."

"I see." But Mehra sounded unconvinced.

Lydia decided to try a different tack, which touched on the true reason why she wanted to leave J'zargo and especially Rumarin behind. "High Hrothgar is a sacred place, as is the mountain. The people who make the journey do so for personal and spiritual reasons."

Mehra was silent for some time. "I think what you're telling me is that because Rumarin and J'zargo wouldn't be doing it for those reasons... and because they wouldn't appreciate it that way... they shouldn't go."

"Yes. But also we may be traveling with others who are bound for High Hrothgar. People like those pilgrims we met at the inn. You remember how they reacted when you mentioned Kynareth. Imagine how they would respond to Rumarin."

Mehra twisted a corner of her blanket in her hands. "I... I suppose they would react badly to some of the things he might say."

"They would."

"I don't think he would be able to stop himself. And... he does need time to rest from what happened."

"Yes. And I doubt he was looking forward to the climb. It makes little sense for either Rumarin or J'zargo to come when they can wait here in comfort."

"I suppose you're right," said Mehra, though her eyes were troubled.

"We'll be back with them soon, Thane Mehra. We won't be in High Hrothgar long."

"Yes." Mehra rested her chin on her knees and watched the hearth's embers fade.


	12. Failure

It was Kell's fault that they had failed to capture the elf Rumarin.

Kell sat on a rock by the river's edge, watching the water where it caught the starlight. She could still see the distant glow of campfires near Ivarstead and hear snatches of talking and singing from people who were waiting for the Dragonborn to come down from the mountain.

Kell had left her own campsite and come here to avoid the disapproving scowls of her two companions. They were both angry with her, especially Oriana, and Kell felt it was best to stay away until things had cooled down. Kell couldn't blame them for being angry. They had since bedded down for the night, leaving Kell alone with sound of the river and the misery of her thoughts. Why couldn't she do anything right? Oriana had trusted Kell with an important job, and Kell had disappointed her in the worst way.

Days ago when they were still in Whiterun, it became common knowledge that the hold's new Thane was going to High Hrothgar to speak to the Greybeards. Thane Mehra would be taking two companions with her, the Altmer Rumarin as well as her new housecarl, a renowned warrior of Whiterun named Lydia. Because it was too risky to try taking Rumarin in Whiterun, Oriana decided they should beat the Thane's traveling party to the town of Ivarstead and ambush Rumarin there at the first opportunity.

After hiring a man named Gilfrid as extra muscle, Oriana led the way to Ivarstead. As a precaution they took a route she was sure the Thane would avoid, a road that went over part of the great mountain from the north.

Kell's body still ached from struggling over the sheer ascents and treacherous slopes of the mountain. At times the path had turned so steep that Kell, terrified of heights, clambered up the mountain on all fours while praying she wouldn't fall to her death. She wondered why there was a trail here at all, why anyone in their right mind would come this way. Just when she was ready to curse the hard unfeeling mountain, they came upon a sight that took her breath away. All of Eastmarch lay below, rivers and lakes flashing silver-blue in the sun, soaring mountains draped in clouds. Kell tried to make her companions stop and look, but they weren't struck by the view as she was.

Gilfrid shrugged with indifference. "No one is going to pay us to stand around and look at scenery."

Oriana paused to look, but she seemed to take no pleasure from what she saw. After a moment she said, "We'd better move on if we're going to reach Ivarstead in time."

Kell let out a sigh and reluctantly followed them down the steep winding trail, her muscles protesting with every step. They rarely stopped long to rest. Kell's companions fared better on the journey, Gilfrid with his brute strength, Oriana with an intense focus and energy that seemed to carry her through anything. But Kell was determined to prove herself, and she pushed through her exhaustion. Just when she was beginning to take heart and feel proud of herself, she stepped wrong and twisted her ankle. The incident cost them valuable time and a precious healing potion. Gilfrid was unpleasant about it, making rude sulky remarks under his breath, but Kell was most stung by Oriana's look of bitter disappointment.

Kell's relief was great when they finally reached Ivarstead. She had always heard the town was a boring little place where nothing ever happened, so she was surprised and cheered to find it full of travelers and vendors from all over Skyrim. Kell longed to explore and enjoy everything Ivarstead had to offer, but they had a job to do.

"The Thane and our target could show up at any moment," said Oriana. "We need to keep our eyes open."

"I thought you said we'd beat them here," said Gilfrid, talking around a stem of wheat-grass sticking out of his mouth. He was always chewing on something-- blades of grass, wads of leaves, slices of root, pieces of bark. It made Kell think of a cow.

"We shouldn't assume we have. We lost some time on the road."

"I wonder how that happened," said Gilfrid, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Kell winced and avoided looking at them. She knew what Gilfrid meant. She had delayed them when she twisted her ankle on the mountain.

"So until that yellow guy shows his face, we stand around and do a lot of nothing?" asked Gilfrid.

"We should use this time to get a feel for the town," said Oriana. "We'll start by finding a place where we can do our work and get out quick when the time comes."

Even with dozens of campsites and market stalls spreading the boundaries and forming new pathways, Ivarstead was still a small town. It didn't take long before Kell had the whole layout fixed in her mind.

Kell could only take so much aimless wandering and endless waiting before she grew bored and restless. The hooded robes she wore as a disguise over her clothes made her hot and sweaty, and she wanted to throw them off. Then she noticed a vendor selling dragon masks in all expressions and colors. On a whim she bought one, slipped it over her face, and shrugged out of the awful robes.

"You shouldn't throw away your septims on nonsense like that," said Oriana, shaking her head in disapproval.

"It was cheap," said Kell, refusing to take off the mask. It was a ridiculous grinning thing painted in loud colors, but that was part of why she liked it. "Besides, I need a disguise like you said so Rumarin won't recognize me."

Gilfrid snorted. "That's the stupidest disguise I've ever seen."

"You already have a disguise," said Oriana. "Put those robes back on."

"But I don't like them. They're hot and itchy."

"Nonsense. They're exactly the same as mine, and they'll help us blend in with the visiting priests and pilgrims."

Kell frowned behind her mask as she studied Oriana's brown robes. They didn't look very priestly to her. They were ugly and lumpy and made even a beautiful woman like Oriana look like a frump, but Kell felt it would be a bad idea to say so.

"You'll draw attention to yourself if you wear that thing," said Oriana.

"But I'm not the only one in a mask. See?" Kell pointed at the people streaming by. Several were arrayed in gear they had bought or won-- horned helmets, flashing capes, leering dragon masks.

Oriana narrowed her eyes and clenched her hands. Kell was afraid that she would be forced back into the robes after all when Oriana finally said, "Fine. But don't waste any more of our money."

When the sun slipped away and the stars lit up the sky, the town became brilliant with magelights and lanterns. A pair of entertainers danced with flaming torches, tossing and spinning them in blinding circles. Kell marveled at the sight, but Gilfrid was unimpressed.

"That damned elf better show up quick," said Gilfrid, eyeing a booth where a man invited people to place bets on a shell game. "I've a mind to pocket some extra drakes while we're here."

"Later," said Oriana. "We still need to be alert. There's a bridge at the edge of town. If they're not here already then they'll have to pass over that. I'm going to take the first watch. I want the two of you to stay together and stay where I can find you."

Gilfrid sullenly chewed his grass and eyed her as though debating whether there was any need to obey her. Oriana stared him down until he finally looked away.

"What if they got held up somewhere?" asked Kell.

"That's possible," said Gilfrid. "Might have met bandits. Way I hear it, the roads to Helgen are crawling with bandits."

Oriana frowned at them both. "The Thane's housecarl is Lydia."

"So what?" asked Gilfrid.

"So Lydia is a captain of Whiterun. She's a skilled warrior who knows the lay of the land. And Rumarin is a decent hand with a sword. That party isn't going to be taken down by a few bandits."

"You didn't tell me that elf knows how to use a sword."

"That's because we're not going to give him the chance. He summons his weapons, and spells take time to--" Oriana broke off. "Look there!"

Kell followed her gaze and saw Rumarin wandering alone through the crowded streets, pausing here and there to sample a drink or take a chance at one of the games. Though he had traded his mage robes for leather armor and he had evidently given up his war paint, there was no mistaking him.

"Finally," said Gilfrid. "And no Captain Lydia in sight. I say we take him."

"What, now?" asked Kell.

Gilfrid rolled his eyes. "No, next year. Of course now."

"Something tells me we ought to wait," said Kell, feeling doubtful as she watched Rumarin try his luck at a game of dice. He was alone and his guard was down. There was no sign of the girl Mehra or her housecarl. But Kell's gut was telling her this was the wrong time to act. It seemed like her gut had been giving her warnings since before they left Whiterun.

"What the hell for? You think I came all this way to stand around and look pretty?" As Gilfrid spoke the blade of grass pivoted between his lips. Kell wanted to pluck it out of his mouth and stomp on it.

"We need a plan," said Oriana. Her tone held no emotion, but her eyes were bright and calculating.

"Right, a plan," said Kell, trying to muster enthusiasm. Oriana knew what she was doing. If she felt this was the time to act, Kell wasn't about to argue.

"Here's what we do. Gilfrid goes to him with a story about needing help dragging a drunken companion back to the inn--"

"Why me?" asked Gilfrid.

"Because he doesn't know you. He'll run at the sight of me, and seeing Kell again will make him suspicious. Kell and I will be waiting in that alley by the blacksmith's shop. You bring him there and then--"

"Bam," said Gilfrid, making a motion with his fist. "Knock him cold."

"Exactly."

Kell half listened as Oriana and Gilfrid worked out the details of the plan. Her eyes strayed back to Rumarin. His wager must have paid off, because he swept a pile of septims into his pouch and moved on to the next booth. The game dealer didn't look at all happy, and Kell wondered if the elf had won through trickery. Oriana had said he was dishonest and could be counted on to cheat when he could get away with it. Kell hoped he had cheated. It would make her feel better about knocking him over the head and delivering him to people who would probably kill him in some horrible way.

That's no concern of yours, Kell told herself. Don't let personal feelings get in the way, just do the job and move on. That's what Oriana would say. But Kell wasn't sure she had what it took to be a bounty hunter. She wasn't convinced that all the people she hunted deserved the fates that awaited them.

But if anyone deserved what was coming to him, Rumarin surely did. He had betrayed Oriana and her brother and his own friend, and he had even tried to turn a profit from his treachery. That made him a dirty rat who deserved no pity. It was because of Rumarin that Oriana's brother was dead. But still something didn't sit right with Kell, something she couldn't pin down. Maybe she was just being cowardly.

Oriana motioned for Kell to follow her. Kell lingered for a second, watching as Gilfrid approached Rumarin. The plan was in motion. She hurried after Oriana.

They walked toward the edge of town where the booths were few and the crowds thin. Along the way Oriana went over the plan again and made sure Kell understood her part.

"Do you know what to do now?" asked Oriana after she had finished.

"I stay out of his sight while you play the decoy," said Kell. "When our target reaches you, I jump out and hit him on the head."

"Right. Knock him out as fast as you can so we can make a clean getaway."

"Couldn't I be the decoy?" asked Kell. She didn't like the idea of being the first to strike a blow.

"No."

"But why?"

"Because you insisted on wearing that mask instead of the robes like I asked."

Kell sighed. She ought to know better than to question Oriana on these matters. Kell was new to tactics of this sort, and she knew she wasn't clever. Still it would be nice if Oriana would consider her wishes now and again.

As if she had read Kell's thoughts, Oriana said reassuringly, "You'll be fine. And it's not as if you'll be alone. Gilfrid and I will do our parts to bring this off."

They slipped into an unlit space between a farmhouse and a blacksmith's forge, both shuttered and silent at this late hour. The alley was cluttered with barrels and crates and rubbish. In the darkness they watched and waited.

Presently Oriana said, "You can take that mask off. It's dark enough here, and we'll bring him down quick."

"It's not hurting anything," said Kell. The mask made her face hot and uncomfortable, but she felt it was better to wear it until the job was done. More than that, wearing a mask was strangely liberating, like it would let her get away with almost anything. She needed that feeling right now.

Oriana made an irritated sound. She turned her head to look out at the street, illuminated by a few lanterns. "What could be taking them so long?"

"He might not fall for it. Gilfrid looks mean as a troll."

"Our pigeon will take the bait." Oriana added with a tone of disdain, "I told Gilfrid to offer him money. That Altmer will stoop to almost anything for the right price."

Kell peered out at the street. Only a couple of booths were in sight, one selling cure-all tonics and another selling dragon bones, though Kell thought the bones looked too small to belong to any dragon. Most of the lights and festivities lay just beyond them. Kell wished she could have enjoyed more of the fun and bought another souvenir or two. But Oriana was right, they shouldn't spend their septims freely. Having enough money was always a problem when you didn't have regular work. Kell knew she should count herself lucky that Oriana was teaching her how to make a living from bounties.

"Do you think the Thane of Whiterun has any idea what he's really like?" Kell wasn't sure why she was asking such a thing at a time like this. She supposed it was because her nerves were running high at the thought of what they were about to do.

"Probably not," said Oriana. "You saw the new leather armor he was wearing. That doesn't come cheap, so she obviously favors him. He can be good at taking people in when it suits him."

Kell reflected on what she remembered of Rumarin and the girl Mehra when she traveled with them to Whiterun. They had made a strange pair, the tall Altmer who kept jabbering and making jokes, the Breton girl who kept her head down and said almost nothing. Yet Mehra had seemed attached to him, and in his odd way he was protective of her. More than once Kell had tried to draw Mehra into conversation, asking what she felt were harmless questions-- how did she like Skyrim so far? What was Winterhold like? What had brought her to Dawnstar? Usually Mehra gave brief halting answers, and once she nearly dissolved into tears, much to Kell's dismay and confusion. Each time Rumarin quickly stepped in and steered the conversation in another direction. At first Kell thought there might be genuine friendship between them, until Oriana pointed out that Rumarin was probably hoping the Thane of Whiterun would bestow favors on him. The sight of Rumarin's new armor gave weight to Oriana's opinion on the matter.

It was strange that someone so meek and easily misled could be a thane, and stranger still that she might be the Dragonborn. Kell couldn't wrap her head around that. The Dragonborn was supposed to be a mighty warrior of Skyrim, yet some of the guards in Whiterun had seen Mehra take the soul of a dragon. And no jarl would make just anyone a thane and send her to talk to the Greybeards. What did it mean? What if Mehra really was the Dragonborn? Kell didn't like considering it for long. It was a disturbing thought.

"They're coming," whispered Oriana.

Kell peered over Oriana's shoulder. In the light of the scattered lanterns she saw two people approach. She recognized Gilfrid for his quick bullish stride and Rumarin for his height.

"You know what to do," Oriana hissed at her. "Hurry."

Kell stepped over a pile of rubbish and hid behind a stack of crates. With a pounding heart she drew out a wooden baton. As a weapon it didn't look like much, no more than a stick, but through Oriana's training she had learned that it could be brutally effective. But Kell had mostly practiced aiming blows at dummies and pumpkins. This time she would be beating a person who would scream and cry and bleed and perhaps fight back. The thought of it made her throat go dry.

Oriana slid to the ground in a pretended swoon, her face hidden in the depths of her hood and her hand tucked into her robes. Kell knew Oriana was gripping the handle of her own baton.

Gilfrid and Rumarin were drawing near. Kell heard their footsteps and Rumarin asking, "You say your friend is this way?"

"Yeah," answered Gilfrid. "Hopefully she's finished puking her guts out."

"I rather hope so too. I expect to be paid extra if she retches all over my armor."

Kell gripped her baton tightly, her hand slick with sweat. She heard Rumarin's step. He was close now. She saw the dark outline of the elf as he approached Oriana, who slumped against the wall and made a small pitiful moan.

This was the moment to act. Kell raised the baton and started forward, but her foot caught on a wooden bucket, knocking it over and making a great clatter. The noise startled the others and alerted Rumarin to his danger. Oriana jumped to her feet and Gilfrid made a rush for Rumarin, but Rumarin struck him a blow first, slamming a fist into Gilfrid's face and making Gilfrid howl.

Kell shrank back and watched dumbly as Gilfrid and Oriana fought to subdue Rumarin. He refused to be taken easily or quietly-- he struggled and punched and kicked and overturned barrels and shouted for help. Kell knew she should aid her companions, but the noise and confusion overwhelmed her and somehow she couldn't make herself move.

Oriana ended the struggle with a blow to Rumarin's head. He collapsed into an unconscious heap on the filthy ground.

Oriana was breathless as she put away her baton. "Help me get him up."

"In a second," said Gilfrid, wiping blood from his mouth as he knelt by the unconscious elf. He grabbed the elf's coin purse and pulled it free.

They froze at the sound of footsteps. "What's going on over there?" called a man's voice.

"Is everything all right?" cried another voice.

"Shit," said Gilfrid.

They ran for it, rushing out of the alley and brushing past a handful of people gathering to see what had happened. Kell's heart thundered as she fled with her companions from Ivarstead, following the river down through the foothills. They didn't stop until Ivarstead was just beyond sight.

Since the moment they stopped to make camp Kell waited in dread for Oriana to yell or curse at her, but instead Oriana all but ignored her existence. Soon Kell almost wished Oriana would verbally cut her down. It would be better than the freezing silence.

The only time Oriana showed a flash of emotion was when Gilfrid began making sarcastic remarks about how helpful Kell had been in a tight spot. Oriana had gazed at him with such cold fury that he faltered.

"But you know I'm right," Gilfrid protested as he nursed his bloody nose. His face was bruised from several blows. Gilfrid jerked a thumb at Kell and added, "If she's going to have a share in the reward for that elf, she damn well better earn it and not muck things up."

Kell opened her mouth to defend herself, but her protest died in her throat. Gilfrid was right. She had botched the whole thing.

"She will," said Oriana in a voice like stone.

"Right," said Kell, taking what little encouragement she could from Oriana's words. "I'll more than earn my share, you'll see. I learn quick and I don't make the same mistake twice."

The man glowered at her. "You're saying you've never been on a job like this before?"

"Sure I have," said Kell. It wasn't a lie, not really. She had seen Oriana in action before and had helped a little. She looked to Oriana to back her up, but Oriana only picked up a dead rabbit that was to be their dinner and took up a knife.

"Right, and I'm a priestess of Mara," said Gilfrid. He spat into the fire.

Kell struggled to think of a good comeback, but she couldn't call up the words she wanted. She soon gave up. Even if she could think of the perfect insult, he would probably make her regret it.

"We'll make our move again," said Oriana, setting to work on the dead rabbit. She stripped off the fur in single quick movement. "And next time he won't get away."

"He better not," muttered Gilfrid. He stuck another blade of grass into his mouth to chew.

Oriana dismembered the stripped rabbit carcass, then salted the pieces of meat. Usually Kell liked to watch Oriana work at any task, whether that was preparing a meal, grooming a horse, mending a shirt, or sharpening a dagger. Oriana had graceful yet strong hands that never fumbled or hesitated over anything. But now it wasn't her hands that Kell watched. Though Oriana worked with apparent calm as she browned the meat over the fire, Kell could see from the tightness around her eyes and mouth that anger was seething below the surface.

The tense silence continued through dinner. Kell finished first, gulping down the rabbit meat without really tasting it. Then she attacked her chores with energy, cleaning plates, putting things away, adding wood to the fire-- partly out of nerves, partly to prove to her companions that she was no slouch. But her efforts were met with heavy silence and unfriendly looks. Discouraged and uneasy, Kell decided to take herself away to think and be alone for a while.

Sitting alone at the river's edge, Kell reflected miserably on all that had happened. She measured the distance to the opposite bank, picked up a rock and threw it hard. Kell was sure she had put all her strength into the throw, but she was disappointed when the stone fell short and splashed into the water. Sometimes it seemed like everything she did was short of the mark-- not strong enough, not brave enough, not smart enough. Oriana didn't say it, but she didn't have to: it was Kell's fault.

Why did Oriana bother with her? It was a question that often came into her mind when she least wanted to think about it. Kell had gone through life without mastering a skill or trade. She had no family, at least none who would claim her. Most days were a struggle for the next meal or the next warm place to sleep.

Oriana had come into her life when she was desperate for something to lift her up and set her on a better path. Oriana had done far more than give her food and money. She had offered to take Kell in hand and teach her how to earn her way as a thief-taker and a bounty hunter. Kell was too astonished and grateful to ask herself whether she would be any good at it. There wasn't much point in asking such things when there were no other options.

Kell picked up another rock and let it fly. It was swallowed up by the river. She was startled by the sound of another stone splashing into the water. She hadn't thrown that one.

"You let your guard down," said Oriana, coming up beside Kell to gaze out over the water. "Anyone could have snuck up on you just now."

Kell considered how to respond. Oriana didn't sound angry, but then she was often hard to read. In the light of the twin moons Kell could see that Oriana was back in her normal clothes and that her long dark hair was unbound, but her expression gave away nothing.

"Not just anyone," said Kell. "You know how to be dead silent, but I would have heard Gilfrid. He stomps like a big horse."

"You're missing the point." Oriana turned to stare down at her. "Do you want to learn from me or not?"

Kell faltered. "I do. Of course I do. I want to learn anything you think I should know."

"You don't act like it. When I asked you to put away that mask and wear the robes, you argued with me. Whenever there's a job to do, you question me instead of doing what's needed."

Kell was too stung to answer. She turned her face away and let the words sink in.

"Worst of all, you argued with me in front of Gilfrid. That's bad for both of us. People like him want the biggest cut of the pie they can get, and they don't like to share. They'll look for any reason to cut other people out." After a significant pause she added, "Sometimes literally."

"You think Gilfrid might turn on us?"

"There's always that risk." Oriana added in a harsher tone, "Every time you argue with me or question my judgment, you show him that he has no reason to fear crossing us. And now you've made us lose our quarry and waste the element of surprise. Our position is more dangerous than before."

Kell felt the words as a blow. It was her fault that their target had slipped away from them, her fault that they had drawn attention from the townspeople, her fault that their job would now be much more difficult and dangerous. Oriana had taken pity on her and tried to instruct her, and Kell had paid her back with childish backtalk and horrible incompetence.

"I'm sorry," said Kell, her voice hitching from the effort of holding back tears. "I'm a damned stupid fool. I promise I'll do better."

After a moment Oriana sat next to her on the wide flat rock. "I only need you to trust me," she said, softer now.

Kell wiped at the stray tears that slipped out. "I do trust you."

"And the next time we act, can I trust you to do what needs to be done?"

Kell remembered herself in the alley again, numb with confusion and panic while her companions struggled with the Altmer. She tried to imagine herself diving into the fray and beating him down.

"Yes," said Kell, though her mind whispered doubt.

"That's all I ask," said Oriana, slipping her arms around her.

Kell settled against her, a rush of warmth and relief taking the place of fear and doubt. She wished there were more moments like this. Most of the time Oriana was like a stern teacher or a soldier on a mission, someone who didn't welcome affection. Sometimes Kell worried that it meant Oriana no longer liked her. Then Oriana would surprise her by suddenly taking her hand, touching her hair, or drawing her into an embrace. Sometimes that was all and Kell was left aching for something more. Other times Oriana took it further, pulling her down and giving her the ecstasy she longed for. Kell wondered if this would be one of those times. Maybe she didn't deserve it now, but that didn't stop her from wanting and hoping.

They sat like that for a while, listening to the river splashing over rocks, the wind stirring through the trees, an owl calling out into the night. Kell grew warmer and warmer from the want of her touch. At last she decided to leave Oriana in no doubt of what she desired. With one hand she touched Oriana's face, and with the other she took Oriana's hand and clasped it to herself. To her delight Oriana pulled her closer and made her forget about everything but the moment.


End file.
